Lay Me in the Cold Earth
by Engelska
Summary: Set after the events of The Winter Soldier, Captain America searches desperately for his friend and comrade Bucky Barnes to no avail. When the Captain receives a phone call from a strange man who holds a claim over Bucky's life, he offers the Captain a ludicrous deal. Bucky's life in exchange for the Steve's death. What can Steve Rogers do but agree?
1. A Trade

"Who is this man?" Asked the man with the blind eye. He tapped a screen with one smooth finger. The skin on his hands was soft and pale, as if he had never done a day of work in his life. The nails were clean and rounded, perfectly manicured. The screen showed some sort of security recording, repeating the same five second loop. In the video, a man with hunched shoulders staggered forward, leaning on a wall made of concrete for support. He sagged against the wall for a moment before the short video began again. His hair was long, shoulder length but the man's face was visible nonetheless. His eyes were dark, scarred, tired. Stained with pain and confusion.

A tall woman by the blind man's shoulder said, "I believe his name is James Buchanan Barnes, sir. Hydra was working with him for a time." She had a slight Russian accent that was barely noticeable. The tall woman handed the one-eyed man a folder, which he perused with some interest.

"It says here he died."

"He fell from a train in Russia, sir. He was found alive and Hydra fixed him with a cybernetic arm."

"He was brothers-in-arms with Steve Rogers, I see."

"Yes, sir."

"Friends, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir. So they say."

"Just what we needed. A gift from heaven, no doubt. Send Van Muthe to bring him in, will you darling?"

"Yes, sir."

The tall woman left, leaving the one eyed man to tap the screen in thoughtful silence. Perhaps, for once, luck was truly on his side.

Captain America pinwheeled his arms for balance, finally crouching down to clutch either side of the train's roof as the thing thundered through the calm country evening. The world sped by in a blur of darkness, interrupted only by the sudden flashing light of a house or car. The wind whipped over his face and his nose was numbed with cold, but Steve Rogers could not spare any thought for the welfare of his face. The train went around a gentle bend, but as gentle as it was Steve was nearly tossed from the roof onto the tracks below.

He crawled forward over the tin roof, inching his way over to the skylight that was tantalizingly close, but still out of reach. If he could just get to it without dying, the rest of this mission would be easy.

"Are you in position, Captain?" Asked Natasha Romanoff over his earpiece.

Steve shook his head before remembering that Natasha could not see him, then said out loud, "No. I just need one more second."

"Alright Captain, but we don't have many to spare. Hawkeye is already in position."

Steve took a breath and with a leap that nearly threw him from the train, gripped the edge of the skylight with a grasp like iron. "Alright," he panted, "I'm there. Hawkeye, on your count."

"Three, two," Hawkeye counted, also over the earpiece. "One. Go!"

At that moment, Steve broke the glass of the skylight with an elbow and plunged into the car below, the glass crunching beneath his feet. He landed easily and came up swinging his shield into the face of the first man. He could hear Hawkeye behind him, engaging in a fistfight with a second man. There were at three of them, all exclaiming in Russian.

"The switch!" cried Natasha, "Get the switch!"

Steve looked around desperately as the man before him fell to the ground. They were in what appeared to be a lunch car. Tables with neat white clothes and glass plates filled the room. Many of them had been pushed aside to make space for a giant wooden crate. Someone launched onto Steve's shoulders from behind. A wiry arm came around his throat and squeezed, choking the air from his lips. Steve Rogers gasped, reeling backwards as the weight pulled him down and back. He drove his elbow backwards into the ribs of his attacker and, as the man was stunned, threw the man over his shoulder. The Russian crashed into a table and lay as if he were dead.

The man attacking Hawkeye, who Steve suddenly saw was a woman, was doing her job well. Steve could see the switch clipped to her belt, but she was holding off Hawkeye's attacks with ease. Steve, while he disapproved of hitting women, it did not stop him from helping his comrade. He launched forward and pinned the woman's arms in a massive bear-hug. She kicked and yelled Russian obscenities until Hawkeye darted forward and plucked the switch from her belt. The Russian woman stopped shouting and stood there, panting heavily as Steve released her.

"Do you understand me?" Steve asked, "Do you understand English?"

"Yes," said the woman. Her Russian accent was heavy, but she seemed to understand what the Captain was saying. She took a few steps back and stood with her back to the crate. The unmarked wooden box was almost as tall as she was.

"Do you know what's in that box?" Steve continued, holding out his hands in a cautious manner.

The woman nodded, "Yes. It is a bomb."

Steve looked at Hawkeye and they exchanged a worried look. It was indeed a bomb. Tony Stark's scans had turned up high levels of explosive freely traveling the country.

"Why are you carting a bomb around? And who wants it?"

The woman laughed and shook her head, rubbing one hand fondly over the wood. "You would not understand. American boy would not understand."

"Okay then, who wants it? You can tell us. I can promise you absolute safety if you tell us what you or your employer is doing with it."

"You promise absolute safety?"

"You know we can do that, Steve," said Natasha over Steve's earpiece.

"I promise," Steve said and Natasha knew his words were aimed at her just as much as the Russian woman.

"Very well. My name is Vera Dominika and I work for Hydra. They plan on using bomb in New York. This train go there."

A chill went down Steve's spine. Hydra.

"You've got some dated information," said Hawkeye, "Hydra gone."

"You promised me protection, now you follow through with promise," said Dominika.

Steve pressed a hand to his earpiece, "Can she be right, Natasha? Tell me she's wrong."

There was static for a moment before Natasha replied, "I don't know. Arnim Zola was destroyed, there's no doubt about that. But I don't know. There may have been another hideout or faction, but it's impossible to tell."

Steve vividly remembered the day almost a year ago when Natasha and he had explored Steve's old camp. He remembered the rows and rows of computer banks and the mind of the man they held. But the mind and memory of the little scientist had been destroyed with the rest of the bunker when SHIELD bombed the place. There was no way he could be alive, could there?

"I'll stop the train," Hawkeye said quietly, slipping through the train door.

"Dominika, are you sure? Are you positive that it's Hydra?"

"Yes, America boy. I am sure."

Natasha sighed and said, "Bring her in. We'll question her back in HQ."

"Got it," Steve said. The train jerked suddenly, coming to a jarring, squealing halt. To Vera Dominika he said, "Come on then."

A small team of specialists were brought in to safely dismantle the bomb while a car with mirrored windows escorted Clinton, Steve and Vera Dominika to Chicago. After the mess with Hydra not six months before and the disbanding of SHIELD, Hawkeye, Captain America and the Black Widow had teamed together in a joint effort to find Bucky Barnes. Steve had thought Bucky dead for seventy years, but Bucky's reappearance hurt almost as much as his supposed death. When they met for the first time after Bucky's accident, Bucky had not even recognized Steve. He had not even recognized himself and his memories of being Bucky Barnes were completely wiped from his mind.  
Steve could not accept that his friend was gone and, near the end he would swear that Bucky had begun to remember. He could see it in his friends eyes. Steve thought that if he could just get Bucky back, he could make him remember completely.

For six months they had been searching and Steve could see that both Natasha and Clinton had begun to lose their drive to find Bucky. It explained all the random jobs they had taken recently. Hunting down criminals, rescuing important political figures and now disarming bombs were common everyday occurrences. Chasing leads and searching had been pushed to the back of the shelf. Even Steve himself was beginning to wonder if he would ever see Bucky Barnes again.

Natasha stood in the parking garage to meet the new arrival. Two dark dressed guards took Vera Dominika by the shoulders and quickly escorted her into what was presently their headquarters. It was not much to look at; a five-story yellow brick building on the outskirts of Chicago, but it was good cover. No one would go searching this dump for high-profile government super heroes. Steve was about to follow Natasha inside when the phone in his pocket buzzed silently. He took it out of his pocket and smiled apologetically to Natasha. She shook her head and followed Vera Dominika into the building. Natasha herself had insisted that Steve carry a phone, carefully teaching the man how to use it. He did not often receive calls and he did not understand the caller I.D enough to see the caller's phone number was being masked.

He stood alone in the dark parking garage, dragging his finger across the phone's screen before holding it up to his ear. "Hello, Steve Rogers speaking," he answered.

"Ah, Steve Rogers. Hello. I won't trouble you with my name, but I will get right to the point." The voice was gravelly and most definitely male. Steve knew something was off the moment the man started speaking. He was threatening, imposing and above all, confident.

"Who is this?"

The man ignored him and continued speaking, "I have in custody someone I believe you are familiar with. Now, I'm here to make a deal. It would be a pity if anything were to happen to him. In fact, I believe the two of you were friends."

"Who is this?" Steve repeated forcefully. His voice echoed through the enclosed garage.

"You can call me," the man paused for a moment, thinking. "Perseus. Now, the man we have, you've been searching for him."

Steve knew the man was toying with him and enjoying it far too much. "Who is it?" he said in frustration. "Who are you talking about?"

"James Buchanan Barnes, Mr. Rogers. I believe you knew him as one 'Bucky' Barnes. Now, how about that deal?"


	2. The Captain and the Call

****Author's Note:**** This is my first fanfiction, so I just wanted to say thanks a bunch for reading! **

They could not call themselves SHIELD any longer, but neither Clinton, Natasha or Steve could think of anything else to call themselves that did not sound silly or foolish. They continued to call themselves SHIELD amongst themselves, and the small yellow brick building on the outskirts of Chicago became known as SHIELD headquarters.

Steve pushed through the HQ door with less than his usual passion.

"Who was it, Steve?"

Steve turned in slight surprise. Natasha was leaning against the wall just inside the door. Her arms were crossed and her red hair flared brilliantly over her dark-clad shoulders.

"No one. Wrong number." There was no way Steve could repeat the conversation. He could not risk telling her.

Natasha nodded and dismissed the phone call from her mind and jumped right to the important stuff. "Vera Dominika is being debriefed by Lancaster and Hawkeye. We should have the updates in an hour or so. Unless you want to question her yourself?"

Steve shook his head and followed Natasha as she walked through the HQ halls. The corridors were narrow, floored with harsh white tile and sterile walls. Doors were placedin even intervals, hiding labs, offices, data rooms and more. "No, I'll wait for the report. I have-" Steve paused, "I have something I need to take care of."

Natasha threw him a glance, but either from his tone of voice or the stern set of his face, Natasha decided to press Steve no further. "Okay," she said, "I'll call you when the file's in."

Steve slowed to a stop as Natasha turned a corner and walked out of sight. He could not concentrate on anything just now. He had to think. All he needed was to think things through, to get things straight. The phone call repeated in his head in vivid detail, repeating like an audio recording.

_"Bucky? You have Bucky Barnes?" Steve was speechless, his breath coming quicker and his heart beating in shock. "How-"_

_"Yes, Mr. Rogers. I found him, shall we say, trespassing on personal property. I have a right to hold him under citizen's arrest." The voice over the phone sounded amused, as if Perseus was on the verge of a chuckle._

_"How can I trust you?" Steve said, hoping beyond hope. One part of Steve wished desperately that this man did have Bucky, but the other half protested. Who knew who this man was or what he could be doing to his friend?_

_"Oh, I have proof."_

_There was a moment of silence and a rush of static, as if the phone were being jostled or perhaps passed from hand to hand. Then there came a voice. A voice Steve knew. A voice Steve missed desperately._

_"Hello?"_

_It was weak and quiet. Husky from exhaustion or pain or some other unpleasant emotion._

_"Bucky?" said Steve in a voice barely above a whisper._

_The phone issued forth more static and the man's voice came over the speakers once more, "There, you see? James Barnes is alive and well."_

_"He doesn't sound well, what are you doing to him?" Steve cried._

_"I am not doing anything to him, Mr. Rogers," said Perseus as calm as ever, "I believe he is suffering from some form of psychosis, but it's hard to say."_

_A wave of panic surged through Steve. Psychosis? He fought it down with a calming breath and said, "What do you want?"_

_"Oh, it's simple really. I propose a trade. Equivalent exchange, if you will."_

_"Just tell me what the hell you want!"_

_"Calm down, Mr. Rogers. I'll release James Barnes on the agreement that your life is forfeit."_

_"My life? You mean trade my life for his?"_

_"That is exactly right, Mr. Rogers, you are a clever individual indeed."_

_Thoughts raced through Steve's mind. His life for Bucky's. He would die, but his friend, his blood-brother, his comrade in arms would be free. "And if I don't agree?"_

_"I will kill him."_

_Steve was silent for a long time, thinking carefully. "Why do you want me dead?"_

_"That is no concern of yours, Mr. Rogers."_

_Finally Steve said, "You have to guarantee his safety. If he is harmed in any way, the deal is off."_

_"Of course, Mr. Rogers. James Barnes is safe in my hands. So it's agreed, then?"_

_The man already knew Steve's answer. Steve knew the answer he had to give. What else could he do? He had failed to save his friend from death once before. He would not fail again._

_"Agreed."_

* * *

Steve sat in his large office with his head in his hands. His shield lay discarded on the floor, and the whir of computers and electronics filled his ears with a soothing cadence. But Steve Rogers could not be consoled. He had just agreed to die for his friend, for Bucky. He did not regret that decision, he would make it again in a heartbeat, but something was off. Who was this Perseus? More importantly, why did he want Steve dead? The man on the phone had given him an address and a time to meet. Steve had immediately looked up the location on his office computer, but it was just a roadside rest area in Nebraska with nothing around for miles. It gave no clue to 'Perseus's' true identity or location.

He slammed a fist down on the desk in a fit of frustration, denting the expensive wood. He had three days. Three days to get to Nebraska and figure out a plan that would keep him alive. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. To be honest, there was no way he could make any kind of plan. Steve did not know what was going to happen on the side of the Nebraskan road. But how could he excuse himself for the three days he needed without being missed? Plus there was the whole deal with Vera Dominika and the train bomb.

All of these thoughts plagued his mind, but above all else shone one bright thought. He was going to see Bucky. He was alive, and Steve was going to find him. Even if he did not live long to enjoy it.

Steve was still sitting in his office when his phone rang. The shrill noise tore him from this thoughts and he reluctantly pulled the phone from his pocket.

"Hello?" He answered carefully. There was a moment when he thought Perseus would answer. Steve breathed a sigh of relief when Natasha's voice came over the speaker.

"We've got the report. It's crazy info, Steve. Come down, would you?"

"On my way," he replied.

Fifty-six seconds later he was knocking on Natasha's door. At her call, he pushed through the door. Natasha's office was similar to Steve's, but Natasha's desk was littered in neat stacks of paper. She sat behind the papers in a chair, and gestured Steve to come forward. He sat in a chair usually reserved for clients and folded his his hands in his lap.

"Steve, I don't know what we've got here, but something doesn't smell right." Natasha reached over the desk to hand Steve the folder. He skimmed it quickly.

"So it is Hydra?" He said, forcing himself to think of the topic on hand.

"So Dominika says. She also says that they are gathering in an abandoned missile silo in southern Nebraska."

Steve shook his head, "Natasha, Hydra was destroyed. Everything they had, every member they had was killed or destroyed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing left."

"It's possible that someone or some documentation lived to pass on Hydra's name and goal. But if it's real or not is beside the point. For now, we just need someone to head out there and check it out."

"I'll go," Steve said. The address Perseus had given him was in Nebraska, it all worked out perfectly. This solved his problem. This would give him the excuse he needed to go get Bucky.

"Thanks, Cap. You want Clinton with you?"

Steve shook his head, "No, this is a one man job." He was not exactly lying. If he intended to sneak into the silo Hawkeye would just complicate things, but the truth of the matter was that Hawkeye would spoil Steve's plans.

Natasha shrugged, "Alright. Head out whenever your ready. Vera Dominika will stay here under an armed guard. I don't trust her."

Steve stood and turned to head for the door.

"Are you alright, Steve?" Asked Natasha quietly.

Steve halted with his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at Natasha, "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"You seem...Worried. Is everything okay?"

"Fine, fine," he lied before closing the door behind him.

Steve planned on heading out right away. It was vital that he take care of the silo before he met with Bucky since he could not be sure he would walk away from Perseus with his life. Once he cleared the silo, he would meet Perseus and make the exchange. He hoped for more than one reason that Hydra was not on the rise once again.  
Steve did not take much with him. He wore his civilian clothes and stuffed his uniform and some money into a backpack. The backpack and his patriotic shield were stuck in the passenger seat of a black sedan and he sped away from the yellow brick headquarters with unlawful speed. The drive to Nebraska would take at least twelve hours. Needless to say, he had some time to think.


	3. Where There's One, There's More

The silo seemed no more than a small concrete building stained with age, overgrown with clinging vines. Only a vague circular area of browned grass would give away the huge doors that hid the deep missile shaft from the light of day.

Steve pulled to a stop a hundred yards from the small building, turning the car off but leaving the keys in the ignition. The headlights faded, and Steve was left in the deep dark of night. It had grown dark hours ago and weariness had begun to drag at his eyes, but still Steve drove on. If he were being perfectly honest with himself, the twelve hour drive had been hell. But he couldn't stop. There simply wasn't time. He had changed into his red, white and blue uniform before approaching the silo. People asked Steve about his uniform all the time: didn't he feel silly? No, the uniform didn't make him feel silly. He felt empowered with the colors of his country blazoned across his breast, as if he carried the weight of his people along with him into battle. The uniform made him feel powerful, made him feel strong in a way that was more than physical. He slammed the car door behind him and took a breath. He needed that strength now more than ever.

Steve could not help but feel a bit naked without the radio transmitter in his ear. He felt exposed and vulnerable without Natasha babbling away, feeding him information. He approached the building as quietly as he could. With the sun gone, only the moon was left to light his path, and the silver light was dim and glinting. There were no security cameras, as far as Steve could tell. There were none of the red, blinking lights that were the telltale sign of a security camera nestled in the eves of the small building. Gravel growled quietly under his feet. The small building consisted of a single room, with a heavy looking door leading down to God knows where. The remains of a security system along with an assortment of monitors and technical gizmos lay discarded on a dusty desk along with the remains of an office chair. Ignoring everything else, Steve squinted at the heavy door. It was steel coating in ancient green paint. He gripped the handle with both hands and pulled. The door gave an answering click and swung open on oiled hinges. Beyond the door, a ladder plunged down into an even deeper darkness.

Steve really, truly did not want to crawl down into the pitch blackness. Why was it always cold, dark pits? For once in his life, couldn't it just be a trip to the beach? A drink by the ocean-side? A quite, uneventful stroll? He took a steadying breath and stepped down into the jaws of blackness. The bars of the ladder were greasy under his hands. Before the moonlight gave out completely, he saw the cold metal had been coated in some kind of dirty, black oil. Then the light was gone and Steve was left to find his own way. Steve's hands scrabbled, feeling for the next rung. His feet stretched out carefully below him, but there was no way for him to tell how much further he had to go. He could be ten feet from the ground, or one hundred feet. Ah, but at last he felt solid ground beneath his shoes and he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was dark in pitch inside the silo and the air was damp. It clung to his skin like clawing, clammy hands, and it smelled strongly of mold and mildew. Steve pulled s small flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on. The beam cast his surroundings in unpleasant detail. He was in a hallway about as wide as his outstretched arms and continued on in a gentle, clockwise arc. The whole place was made of solid concrete and the walls were painted the same dreadful green as the door. The paint peeled away in thick chips.

Steve followed the hallway and made his way deeper into the silo. The whole place reminded him horribly of his old camp where he had trained alongside his fellow soldiers. The olive green paint, the warning signs. It all felt nostalgic, but the familiar atmosphere could not curb his uneasiness. Hydra was here. The mere thought of Hydra returning was enough to set him on edge.

Steve rounded a corner and nearly careened off the walkway and down into the empty space before him. He pinwheeled his arms and stumbled back, slapping his hand against the cold stone wall for balance. A shaft fell away before him, huge and cylindrical. It had to have been at least fifty feet across and he couldn't even begin to guess how deep. This is where they would have stored the missiles, Steve realized. Leaning carefully forward, Steve aimed his flashlight down the shaft. The light did not go far, but he could see something, something glinting dimly in the middle of the shaft.

Steve padded quickly down the walkway, trying to get closer to the object that hung in the center of the shaft. What on earth could it be? After one more flight of steps, Steve leaned forward and examined the glint once more. He swore loudly, and the sound bounced harshly around the room. It was a missile. The silo was not empty at all, but very, very full. His heart thudded in his chest; was it an active bomb or was it too old? As far as he could tell, the missile was in perfect condition.

"Hello?" came a voice, tearing Steve's attention away from the massive bomb that lay before him. The voice came bouncing through the shaft from every direction and could have come from anywhere. His immediate urge was to shut off the flashlight, but that would definitely cause alarm.

"Hello," Steve called out nervously.

"Himich, is that you? You know what Sarah said about leaving your post."

The voice was closer now. Steve sidled down the walkway, pressing his back to the cold wall. "Sorry," Steve shouted, doing his best to play along. His fingers met a doorway in the cold wall. He stopped, waiting, listening.

Then the man came through the doorway, "You really should-"

But his words were cutoff mid sentence as Steve grabbed him, one hand gripping the man's shoulder, the other clamped firmly over his mouth. The man was heavy, but Steve dragged him down in an instant. He felt the man scrambling for something at his belt, a gun perhaps. Wordless, panicked cries issued from his clamped mouth. Steve pulled the man close and, with one hand still clamped over his mouth, cracked his assailant's head against the stone wall. The man was instantly unconscious and fell heavily against Steve. He pushed the body aside, and kicked the gun away with distaste.

He continued down the silo with far more caution than he had previously. If there was a guard here, there would only be more further in. He encountered three more sentries which he dealt with far more easily than the first. A quick blow to the head for each and they were taken care of. They would wake up with terrible headaches, but any concussions would be minor. The third and final sentry had been guarding a huge steel door. In appearance it was much like the door at the silo's entrance, but this door was at least twice as large. A giant could have walked through without bothering to duck.

Steve hauled at the huge door, using every ounce of his strength to heave the thing open. A small crack of light appeared and grew wider. The door was a good three feet thick with layers of concrete and iron reinforcing it's structure.

"A blast door," Steve whispered to himself. He slipped through the crack and pulled the door closed behind him. For such a huge door it was surprisingly well balanced.

The corridor beyond the door was lit by bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling at even intervals. The lights were very obviously not part of the original structure. Hugging the walls, Steve padded down the corridor. The hall ended abruptly twenty feet ahead and Steve could see no one, but he could hear voices. Two voices, actually, locked in heated conversation.

"Cole, we have to launch now. God know's how much time we have. They caught Vera. How long can she last under questioning?"

"Dominika is not our problem now," said another voice. His accent was heavy and southern and full of unconscious confidence. "But I agree. Contact Perseus and tell him what's up. We need to launch now." There was a click and a brief flash of static, "Himich, come in."

A pause.

"Himich, I repeat, come in."

Another pause.

"Himich, God dammit. Johnny, you there?"

After yet another pause, the man swore. "Sarah, hurry up! Someone's got in. I'm going to close the blast door."

Steve bolted forward on silent feet and reached the end of the hall as soon as the man came around the corner. Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him around, slamming him up against the wall. He pinned the man's shoulders with one arm and held a hand over the man's mouth. His eyes were wide and his nose was long and crooked.

"Are you with Hydra?" Steve asked quietly. "I'm going let go of your mouth. If you shout, by God, bad things will happen."

The man in his grasp was obviously terrified, but he nodded in agreement. Steve pulled his hand away and the man licked his newly freed lips. He took a breath then shouted, "Sarah, Sarah!"

Steve swore and pushed the man aside, walloping the point of his jaw with a fist. The man crumpled to the floor like an empty sack. A sound made Steve turn. A woman stood in the room before him. It appeared to be a control room with monitors and buttons that blinked and shone with red and green lights. The screens showed several different angles of the same thing; the huge missile. There was no doubt in Steve's mind now that the missile was active.

The woman before him stood on the far side of the room with a folding table between them. She held a gun in one hand and a radio in the other. "Stop where you are," she said, leveling the gun at Steve.

Instead of doing as the woman asked, Steve leaped forward, rolling and ducking down behind his shield. He heard the deafening bang and the answering shattering as the bullet ricochet off his shield.

"You're with Hydra?" Steve shouted, peeking over his shield. The woman fired again and Steve ducked back down. He rolled forward again, raising the shield to deflect more fire before jumping to stand directly before the woman.

The woman was tall with dark skin and darker hair. To Steve's surprise, instead of flinching back the woman raised her gun and fired point blank. Steve only just managed to knock the gun away before the woman fired. Even then the bullet missed him by a hair's breadth. He wrenched the gun from her hand and threw it aside.

"You're Hydra," Steve said again. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

"Yes," the woman replied.

"You're Sarah?"

The woman nodded, "Yes. And you're Captain America, I presume."

"You presume correctly. Now, if you'll just help me out, we can all leave happy, got it?"

Again, Sarah nodded. Steve's mind began to reel as he sorted through the facts, "Who do you work for?"

"As you doubtlessly heard from that fool Cole, we work for Perseus."

"What are you trying to bomb? What is going on here?"

"I can't tell you that, Captain."

Steve grit his teeth with frustration, "Who is Perseus?"

Sarah shook her head, "I can only tell you that he is someone we all must fear, Captain."

Ten minutes later the silo was clear. Steve used his store of zip-ties to cuff the hands of the silo's previous occupancy and locked them in a storage closet off the main corridor. Sarah had complied willingly enough. Either she saw that she was hopelessly outgunned or she had some brilliant plan of escape. Either way, Steve didn't have time. His timer was counting down and he had someplace to be. He climbed through the damp tunnels and nasty corridors once again, climbing the oily ladder until at last he stood in the early morning light. For a moment he simply stood, breathing in the fresh, clean air. He hated tunnels. He hated pits. He really was not suited for the darker, more hellish places on earth. He'd take a battlefield or street-brawl any day over those damp places.

Pulling out his phone, Steve called up Natasha.

"Steve," It was only two in the morning, but Natasha answered on the third ring. "You cleared the silo?"

"It's Hydra, Natasha," Steve said his voice monotone from exhaustion and shock. "It's definitely Hydra."

Natasha cursed violently and there was a moment of silence over the phone. When Natasha spoke again, her voice was calm, "Tell me."

Steve recounted his adventure as he sat heavily in the car. He was on the highway by the time he finished his story. "Send some locals down, Natasha. They'll find six Hydra members locked in a utility closet. You should question the one named Sarah."

"Why can't you bring them in? You can't leave them alone with the missile, Steve. God knows what they're willing to do."

"I, uh, I can't. I have something personal I need to do."

There was a heavy pause. "Alright Steve. I'll send the locals. Come back safe, okay? Where there's one missile, there's more."

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for** **reading!**


	4. Old Friends

The roadside rest stop was calm and quiet as Steve pulled into the parking lot. He turned off the ignition, but didn't get out of the black sedan. He had rented a hotel room for a night so he could shower and sleep off the exhaustion that stuck like grit in his eyes. The damp of the silo had clung to him like a second skin, and Steve shivered at the memory of that cold, dark place. But he was ready now; ready and waiting for whatever Perseus or Hydra could throw at him.

He was twenty minutes early. Perseus said he would arrive at noon, but after ten minutes of sitting, waiting in the hotel room Steve simply could not take it anymore. Natasha had called him, but Steve didn't pick up. He didn't want to lie to her again, and he couldn't tell her the truth. She would try to stop him, talk him out of it or convince him to wait for backup. But Steve could not allow any of that. This was a risky enough situation and if Perseus was true to his word, Bucky's life was in balance. Bucky stood on the blade of a knife and a mere puff of air would be enough to topple him to either side.

Steve's heart was racing and his stomach clenched with nerves. He leaned his head back against the car seat. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had to calm down. Nerves would cause hesitation and shaky hands, those would do him no good. Why was he so nervous? Steve's hands clenched the steering wheel with crushing force. He could storm a Nazi hideout or take on ten men in a gunfight without a change in his heartbeat, but the mere thought of seeing Bucky again set him on edge. What would he say? What could he say? He hadn't seen Bucky for six months and their last meeting hadn't been exactly friendly. Steve gritted his teeth. It didn't matter how Bucky reacted as long as they both made it out alive.

Steve's eyes shot open as the sound of a motor approached. The door of the black sedan opened and he stepped out, slamming it hard enough to make the car rock and creak. A black, windowless van pulled into the parking lot, it's diesel engine shutting off with a stutter. Steve squinted, trying to see the driver through the tinted windshield. Steve shifted his weight and adjusted the shield on his arm. He took another breath and as it left his body, he pushed his nerves with it. His heart slowed and his tension faded. It was time for business.

A man stepped out of the driver's seat of the van. Steve saw instantly that he was a soft man, unused to any form of physical labor. His hands were fat and soft and he was dressed in a perfect grey suit. A lavender tie hung below his chin and a ring of silver was stuck on the thumb on his right hand. His hair was dark and greased back and it shone brightly in the noonday sun. He wore a patch over his left eye, and scars crossed his face. Deep, pink, puckered scars that looked as if they never quite healed properly.

The man stuck out his hand and grinned, "Hello. I am Perseus. By your uniform, I presume you are Steve Rogers. Am I correct?"

Steve shook the man's hand, "No chance of me getting your real name?"

"No," Perseus chuckled, "Sorry."

Well, it was worth a shot.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Steve said, unsmiling. Perseus smelled of dust and he wanted to spend as little time as he could in his presence. "You have Barnes?"

"Yes, yes-"

"I swear," Steve interrupted, "If you've hurt him in any way I'll-"

"As I said over the phone, Mr. Rogers, I have not hurt James Barnes."

Steve said nothing.

"Yes, very well!" Perseus turned back to the car and beckoned. "Schrader, come on, lad!"

Someone opened the passenger door of the van and stepped out. He was a huge, hulking man with arms as thick as telephone poles, or so it seemed to Steve. Schrader had to be at least six-foot-seven, with blond hair tied back in a short tail. He wore a T-shirt that stretched uncomfortably over his chest and his brows were thick and heavy. His eyes were a dull blue. He stood next to Perseus, as if waiting for instruction.

Perseus saw Steve staring and laughed, "Big, isn't he? I found him in Sweden. Nice lad. A bit slow, but a nice lad. Svegard, fetch the merchandise, will you?"

Svegard Schrader went to the van and began to sort through a huge ring of keys, searching for the right one.

"Here's how it's going to work," Perseus said, all signs of humor falling from his face. "I will-"

"You'll free James Barnes in exchange for my life."

"Yes, you are correct, sir. I'll show you Mr. Barnes and prove that I've not harmed him."

"Then I die?"

Perseus smiled, "Well, not quite, Mr. Rogers."

"What the hell is that supposed to-" Steve began to say, but he let his words fade as Shrader opened the van door.

The double doors swung open and after a few moments, James Buchanan Barnes stepped out. Steve's iron shell shattered at the sight of his friend. There he was. There was the man he had missed for over seventy years. His hair was longer than before, and was tied roughly back. He wore civilian clothes and a jacket hid his metal arm from view.

A smile broke out on Steve's lips and he took a step forward, but halted. Something was wrong. Bucky leaned heavily on Shrader and the big man was practically dragging him. His boots dragged along the asphalt, scrabbling gain purchase, to take his own weight.

Steve's hesitation broke and he was about to jump forward, to aid Bucky, but was stopped by Perseus stepping in his way. "Now, Mr. Rogers, let's not get carried away."Shrader stood behind Perseus, his hand about Bucky's shoulders. He was close enough now and Steve could see Bucky's face.

"Bucky," Steve said quietly, questioningly. Bucky's head hung limply, his chin tucked against his chest. Steve could see his once bright blue eyes were a dull, lifeless grey. He didn't even seem to respond to Steve's words. "What did you do to him?" Steve said, gripping Perseus by the lapels and shaking him violently, "What did you do to him, you bastard?"

Perseus put his hands up and genuine terror lit his eyes. "Nothing, I've done nothing! You barbarian, unhand me this instant!"

Shrader released his hold on Bucky and pushed Steve roughly away from Perseus.  
With his support gone, Bucky fell to his hands and knees on the pavement. Steve let Shrader shove him away, and knelt quickly by Bucky's side. "Hey, hey, Bucky? Come on buddy, can you hear me?"

Perseus straightened his coat and cleared his throat, "He received massive amounts of mental scarring during his stay with Hydra, Mr. Rogers. As I said, there is nothing physically wrong with him. He is suffering from some form of psychosis, but it will be impossible to tell exactly what without an extended period of treatment."  
Psychosis. Steve swore under his breath. Natasha had said something about brain washing, but he thought her words had been a insensitive joke.

"Mr. Rogers," Perseus went on, "Our deal."

"Yes, yes. Just-" Steve bit his lip, "Just give me a minute." He didn't know what he had expected. Had he expected Bucky to leap out of the van, chipper and fine like he had been before? No, he had known not to expect that much. But had hoped that Bucky would at least be able to recognize him. No, it wasn't even that. He wanted Bucky to see that Steve had failed to save him before, but by God, he would make up for that now. Steve would save him this time.

Steve straightened to his full hight and faced Perseus. He towered over the man, topping his height by at least six inches. "Alright. The deal?"

"You come with us. You take Bucky's place."

"Take his place?" Steve looked back at Bucky's crouched form, "Take his place as what?"

Perseus shook his head, "That doesn't matter at this point, does it Mr. Rogers? You come with us and we let him go. He's a free man."

"Whoa, hold on. If you leave him here, he'll hurt himself or die! He can't go like this."

"It's this or nothing, Mr. Rogers."

Steve was silent for a long time. It was now or never. He had to act. Quick as lightening, Steve crouched and kicked Perseus' legs out from under him. The large man fell to the ground with a cry and before Schrader could react, Steve had thrown a punch right to the point of the big man's jaw. Schrader stumbled back a few steps but recovered quickly, jumping forward to throw his own punches. Steve blocked the first two, but the third punch was wickedly fast and smashed all the air from his lungs. Steve gasped but used Schrader's momentum against him, gripping his hair and smashing the corner of his shield into Schrader's gut. Schrader's eyes bugged out of his head as he tried desperately to suck air into crushed lungs. He fell to his knees clutching his chest and gaping like a fish out of water.  
Then Steve heard an all too familiar _click_ as a gun was cocked. "Stop there, Mr. Rogers." Perseus was back on his feet and in his hand was a black pistol. It was aimed directly at Bucky. Steve stopped and closed his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink. Perseus had him. Steve raised his hands above his head, letting his shield fall to the ground.

Perseus nodded, "Very good, you seem to know the drill."

Behind Steve, Schrader staggered to his feet.

"Down on your knees please, keep your hands raised. You've caused enough trouble as it is." As he spoke, Perseus' arm never faltered and his aim remained true. "I will still honor our bargain, luckily for you. Schrager, come on, lad. Walk it off, we have work to do."  
Perseus shouted orders and Schrader went once more to the back of the van. Steve watched this all with a growing dread in his stomach. His plan, as weak and simple as it had been, had failed. He, Captain America, had failed. He bowed his head, unsure what was to be his fate. Death? Torture? Questioning? God knows what the bastards would do to him.

Suddenly Steve felt a light pressure on his leg, no more than a touch. He turned quickly and saw Bucky, clutching his ankle with a painfully weak grip. "Bucky?" Steve said quietly. Bucky raised his head, his dull eyes meeting Steve's. Steve saw confusion there. Pain. Exhaustion. But above all, he saw recognition. Bucky looked like a man lost in a place he can't begin to comprehend,

"You," Bucky said. His voice was a mere breath upon the wind, but Steve heard it. "I know you."

"Bucky, listen," Steve began to whisper furiously, "You need to find Natasha Romanoff."

"Romanoff," Bucky repeated. "Steve," He said suddenly, quietly, as if suddenly remembering.

"Yes, I'm Steve," Steve said, his will melting away. Was this all that was left of James Buchanan Barnes? This wasted, shell of a man? If Bucky could just get to Natasha, she'd know what to do. "Find Natasha."

"Whispering secrets?" Perseus said as Schrader returned from the van. He clutched something in his hand. "Nevermind. Mr. Rogers, I am sorry about this."

"Sorry about what? What is that?" Steve asked, getting slowly to his feet.

"Something to help make the ride a bit smoother. Go ahead, Schrader."

And before Steve could react, Schrader moved. The big man swung one huge arm and, for an instant, Steve could see the outline of a wrench or a pipe of some sort. Next moment, there was an explosion of pain in his head and the world tilted, jarring violently as he hit the ground.

Stars filled his vision. He could see Perseus saying something, but his words were drowned out by a ringing that seemed to fill his mind. Then, suddenly, Bucky's face filled his starry vision. He looked confused, worried, angry. He looked torn. And then Steve was gone.


	5. To Nebraska

Natasha tapped her lip with her fingertips, beating out a rhythmic, nervous beat. She sat behind her desk in SHIELD headquarters. The Chicago traffic was a grey drone outside the tinted windows, only helping to focus her thoughts and worries. Her mobile phone sat on the polished wood of her desk and she stared at it with dull glare. It had been four days since she, or anyone for that matter, had last made contact with Steve Rogers. Four days. Natasha had tried calling him, but he wouldn't pick up the phone. He knew how to use it, Natasha had taught him herself and Steve would never ignore her like that. No. Something was wrong. But what? Steve had cleared out the silo with no problem. Natasha thought back to his last phone call.

_"I have something personal I need to do..." _

He must have gotten himself into some kind of trouble, but she couldn't begin to think of what. Whatever it was, if Steve didn't have his phone it would be difficult to track him down. Maybe if she could trace his car-

A knock brought Natasha out of her brooding, and Hawkeye entered the office. Natasha sat up and cleared her throat, "Clinton, what's up? Take a seat."

Hawkeye didn't sit, but stood nervously before her desk. "Natasha, Maria Hill found something and," he hesitated, looking out the window onto the busy streets before looking Natasha in the eye. "She found something that I think you should see."

Natasha stood hurriedly, "What? What is it?"

Clinton just shook his head, "Just come see. It's Steve."

Her heart lept into her throat, and Natasha quickly followed Clinton through the halls of the headquarters. The halls were empty and they passed no one, and Clinton wouldn't say a word until they reached the office of Maria Hill.

"Natasha," Maria said by way of greeting.

"What is it? What did you find?" Natasha asked, circling Maria's desk to view her computer monitor.

Maria shook her head, "I can't believe it myself, but look." Maria tapped a button on her keyboard and a video began to play. "It's security camera footage from a rest stop in Nebraska. It's from the middle of nowhere, but our screenings picked it up. Take a look."

The video showed an empty rest stop. A black sedan pulled in and parked, but the occupant didn't get out of the car until a white windowless van pulled up alongside it. Finally, the figure in the car stood and slammed the door behind him.

Natasha gasped, "Steve?"

Maria just nodded towards the screen and said, "Keep watching."

Two men stepped from the white van, one was a monster with blond hair, the other was a fat man in a suit. A black patch covered one of his eyes. They approached Steve, and seemed to talk for a moment before the monster blond returned to the van, and pulled yet another man from the trunk. By the way the blond monster supported him, the man was either horribly drunk or terribly ill.

"Oh, my God," Natasha whispered. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Clinton asked, "Do you know who that guy is?"

Natasha nodded, not taking her eyes from the monitor. "That's James Barnes."

"No, are you sure?" Clinton asked, disbelief plain in his tone, "That can't be him."

"It is, I'm positive."

The video played out quickly and cleanly. The tall man held a gun to Steve's head, forcing him to his knees. Natasha had to look away when he knocked Steve to the ground. Steve was quickly gathered into the van and the three sped off, leaving Bucky lying in the street.

"He must have made a deal," Natasha said, frowning. "Or something. Who was that man? The one in the suit?"

Maria shook her head, "I can't get an I.D. on the man. The camera quality isn't good enough."

Clinton shook his head, "What do you mean, a deal? What are you talking about? If that's Bucky, we have to find him. Now."

Natasha straightened, pulling nervously on her red hair, "Steve said he had something personal to do after the old silo. I haven't heard from him since. He must have gotten a phone call or an email offering a trade."

"Himself for Bucky," Maria said quietly.

"Maria, do you have the address?"

"Yep."

"Good. Write it down for me, will you? Clinton, you coming?" Natasha said. Her eyes were hard, Clinton could see the fiery anger that burned there. Natasha was out for blood, and Clinton almost pitied the fat man who had spirited Steve away.

"Hell yes."

***

For what seemed like an eternity, Steve lived in a world of colorful and painfully vivid dreams. He dreamt that Bucky stood over him. "You should have stayed away," Bucky said quietly. "You shouldn't have come."

Steve would shake his head, over and over he would shake his head and say, "I'm with you till the end of the line."

And at his words, Bucky would look away, his eyes dark and pained, and it was that look tormented Steve as he dreamt. That look that told Steve that he could never do enough. That look that told Steve the Bucky he knew was changed, and that nothing Steve could do could ever bring Bucky back.

But finally Steve roused from his world of dreams, and his world became a land of blurred shapes and bright lights and pain. Steve groaned and blinked, his vision slowly focusing. His head hurt like hell and his mouth was as dry as sandpaper.

Experimentally, Steve raised his head and peered around. He was in a room with white sterile walls and blinding fluorescent lights. He was sitting in what looked like a dentist chair but most dentist chairs didn't have leather cuffs on the armrests. Steve pulled on his bindings, but the leather held firm.

Suddenly there was a sound behind him. A door opening and shutting. Quiet footsteps. Finally, the intruder came into Steve's view. "Ah, Mr. Rogers. You're awake."

Steve's mouth dried at the sight of Perseus. With the sight of the fat man, all the memories from the day before came rushing back. The bargain. The pipe. Bucky. Steve bit his lip and rested his head back against the chair, doing his best to avoid looking at Perseus.

"Don't be like that, Rogers. It was a fair trade, you know that."

"I was under the impression you were going to kill me, not play doctor."

Perseus laughed, "Oh, you don't even know the half of it. Either way, you agreed to exchange your life. Death was never mentioned." From his pocket, Perseus withdrew a wicked-looking syringe, it's clear vial empty.

"What am I here for, then?" Steve asked, watching the needle nervously. Perseus ran a cold antiseptic towel over Steve's arm before pricking the skin. Steve didn't flinch, but watched groggily as his blood filled the vial.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Once the vial was full, Perseus withdrew the needle and eyed it with apparent satisfaction. "You've had a busy couple of days, and you've got some busy days ahead of you. Just relax for now and regain your strength. You're going to need it."

Steve said nothing as Perseus chucked to himself and retreated from the room, the blood clutched in his sweaty hands. His mind was too fuzzy to ponder the blood sample for long. He strayed from this topic or that, finally settling on the thought of his friends. He hoped that Bucky would make it to safety. He hoped that Natasha would find him. She'd know what to do about Bucky, for sure. And maybe Banners could help his psychosis or whatever the hell was wrong with him. Steve's mind began to wander and finally, unwillingly, he slept and dreamt once more of Bucky and his dark, accusing eyes.

**Authors Note: Thank you for reading! And thank you to everyone who left a review, I really appreciate it! **


	6. Fever Dreams

They made it to Nebraska in record time. The journey that Steve made in twelve hours was made in six by Natasha and her disregard for speed limits. Clinton kept expecting to hear the wail of a police siren and see the flashing lights as a patrol car flagged them down, but they were not stopped. Not once. Now, this doesn't mean that there weren't a few close encounters. They almost crashed at least four times, and Clinton would simply clutch desperately onto his car seat until his knuckles turned white and grit his teeth as they swerved around other cars, barely missing their fenders.

It was evening and the sun was setting on the grassy Nebraska hills. The farmlands rolled and dipped, following the curves of the land and arching gently alongside the roaring highway. They were nearly there, not five miles from the rest stop when Clinton suddenly cried out, "Stop!"

Without hesitation Natasha slammed on the breaks and turned wildly, swerving onto the shoulder as cars honked furiously behind them before racing passed.

"Oh, my God," Natasha cried and Clinton jumped out of the side of the car, slamming the door hurriedly behind him.

Twilight is the time of day notorious for it's dangerous lighting. Most vehicle accidents occur at that mystical time between day and night, simply because the light is too dim to see by. It was a wonder that Clinton even saw it. But Hawkeye held up to his name as he saw the figure half buried in the ditch along the highway.

Clinton crouched at the figure's side and Natasha was there in a moment, her hands fluttering nervously.

"My God," she repeated.

"Come on," Clinton said softly, "We need to get him out of the ditch."

Together Clinton and Natasha gripped the man's arms and pulled Bucky Barnes from the grass and nettles at the roadside. The thorns caught in his clothes, the most stubborn of them ripping holes in his clothing rather than releasing their hold. Clinton rolled Bucky onto his back. Bucky's face was cut and scratched, and a bloody bruise was already appearing high on his cheek where his head had hit the ground.

Natasha bit her lip as she saw Bucky's face. He was pale, and his eyes were sunken and shadowed. Many of his cuts still oozed blood. His cheeks were hollow and gaunt, and Natasha could see even the bumps of his ribs outlined against his t-shirt.

"Is he alive?" She asked quietly.

Clinton pressed two fingers against Bucky's exposed neck, and nodded. "He has a pulse, at least. But, God, he doesn't look well. He's got a blazing fever, Natasha.'

Just then, Bucky's eyes shot open. They were a startlingly bright blue against the dullness of his skin. Clinton flinched back in surprise, but Natasha leaned forward and put her hands on Bucky's chest to steady him.

"James Barnes?" She said softly, trying to sooth the wild look in Bucky's eyes.

Bucky looked wildly around, incomprehension plain on his face. He tried to sit up, but was held still by Natasha's firm grip.

"James? Bucky, listen, can you hear me?"

At the name 'Bucky' he looked up at Natasha, meeting her gaze.

Natasha saw his reaction and continued, "Bucky, my name is Natasha Romanoff, I'm friends with Steve Rogers."

"Romanoff," Bucky said, his voice a husky whisper. He tried once again to sit up, and this time Natasha let him. Clinton gripped his shoulder to help him up, and felt cold metal beneath the fabric of Bucky's jacket. "Steve, he..." Bucky closed his eyes and put a hand to his brow, as if thinking hard. "He told me to find Romanoff,"

"That's me, I'm here," Natasha said. "Clinton, help me get him up. We need to get him off the road."

As Clinton bent to lift Bucky, the man's eyes rolled back in his head and Bucky fainted dead away. He continued to mumble 'Romanoff, Romanoff," over and over until Clinton managed to get him in the back of the sedan. He lay across the seats, his knees bent to allow him to fit.

"Natasha, he won't make it to Chicago. He needs a hospital now," Clinton said, turning the car's key and sending it roaring into life.

Natasha turned to look at the man lying the backseat. His cheeks were beginning to flush red with his fever, and his hair stuck to his neck in damp strands.

"_End of the line_," he repeated in a whisper, "_End of the line_."

"Vansville is close," Natasha said, making a split decision, "we'll head there. They'll have a hospital."

"_End of the line, end of the line_."

As Clinton merged with traffic and applied a heavy foot to the gas pedal, he asked, "What is he saying? End of the line? What does that mean?"

Natasha shook her head helplessly. Her straight, red hair flared about her shoulders as she said softly, "I don't know, Clinton. Drive faster."

She just hoped that they could get to the hospital in time. Bucky's fever was dangerously high and he was delirious. Natasha had heard the tales of the mind wiping and brain tampering, and couldn't help but wonder if Bucky could be fixed. 

* * *

Steve Rogers drifted in and out of sleep, spending what seemed like centuries in a muzzy, colorful half-wakefulness. It was hard to focus, but when he managed to herd his thoughts into some kind of order, he had no way of answering the questions that were accumulating alarmingly quickly.

In his moments of lucidity, Steve found that he remained in the original room, tied to the dentist's chair. The door was positioned behind him and there were no windows, making it impossible for him to tell where he was. He could hear the sound of hustle and bustle coming from behind him, muffled and faint, but there nonetheless. He assumed he was in a facility of some type, or a lab. He vividly recalled Perseus' visit, and how the fat man had taken a vial of his blood. He remembered it so well, because it had been repeated many times. Steve must have unwillingly donated at least five or six vials to Perseus' project.

No matter how Steve poked and prodded the man, he could never work any details out of Perseus. Perseus would simply smile enigmatically and say, '_It's for the cause, Captain. You will lead us to the birth of a new society_,' often following up with a self-satisfied chuckle.

He could never focus long enough to sort out what Perseus could possibly mean and his train of thought would fly out of his mind like a stray cobweb upon the springtime breeze.

Steve did notice, however, that he could not recall ever being fed. He had not eaten nor drunk anything during his stay, at least as far as he knew, and he didn't feel hungry or thirsty. This seemed to pull a warning bell deep in Steve's thoughts, as if this knowledge should be significant. But, damn it all, he couldn't focus for more than seconds at a time. The thought crossed his mind that they, whoever they were, could be drugging him, but again he soon lost the idea to a hazy doze.

To tell the truth, he was no longer afraid for his life nor particularly worried. Steve sat in his dentist's chair and felt what could only be described as boredom. With his mind free of burdening thoughts such as Perseus' plan, his own safety or Bucky's, he found that he spent his time dozing, or waiting for Perseus to appear and stick him once more with the wicked needle.

The thought of escape didn't even cross his mind.

* * *

"We need an IV in this one now!" Shouted a doctor in a white coat and glasses, "and give me three CC's of benzodiazephine! Now!"

Bucky was lying on a hospital bed, straining against the arms of Natasha, Clinton and two other doctor's as they tried to keep him still. He had awoken from his fevered state just as they'd dragged him through the hospital doors. Now his eyes were wide, his expression that of pure panic. Obviously, bad memories were coming back to him and making themselves all too present.  
"Bucky!" Natasha cried over the noise, "Calm down, you're sick! God, stop struggling!"

But before Bucky could react, a third doctor appeared at the bedside and drove a needle deep into Bucky's neck. Bucky shouted in frustration, but the will seemed to seep out of him and he sagged against the mussed bed sheets. The same doctor nimbly slid an IV into Bucky's arm, taping it neatly. Luckily, Bucky's metal arm was furthest from the doctor's and was left untouched and unnoticed.

"What's wrong with him?" Natasha asked the bespectacled doctor. Unneeded, the other doctor's filed quietly from the room.

The doctor, whose name tag proclaimed him to be Dr. Steinman, sighed, "He has a fever, but we'll give him an antibiotic that should clear it up overnight." He reached out one gnarled finger and pried open one of Bucky's eyes, shining a flashlight into the pupil. "Ah, see, the lack of dilation indicates at least some level of head trauma," he turned to Natasha, "has he experienced any accidents? Car accidents, tripping, falling, anything?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, "he may have. Can you treat it?"

"Once he wakes up perhaps. Until then there's nothing we can do except kill this fever," Dr. Steinman looked her in the eyes, "My dear, I think it would be best for you to be present when he wakes. He doesn't seem to be in..." the doctor hesitated, "a stable condition."

"I'll stay with him," Natasha agreed. She sat in an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the hospital room, Clinton settling down next to her.

"Do you think he's okay?" Clinton asked, "He doesn't seem right in the head."

"You remember what happened to him. You'd be the same if you were in his position."

"I suppose," Clinton rubbed his chin, "I just hope he's well enough to speak when he wakes up. God knows what those bastards are doing to Steve."

Natasha pushed down the wave of anxiety that threatened to boost her heart rate. She shifted in her chair and settled down to wait. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for reading, and I'm sorry about the long wait! I really wasn't sure what direction to take the story in, and that stumped me for awhile. Thank you to everyone who has left a review! They are honestly the happy bundles of joy that keep me writing! ^^


	7. Antibiotics and Morphine

Something was different. The sounds of activity were unusual somehow. Closer. Louder. Steve pulled against his bonds, twisting and straining in an effort to see behind him. But the dentist's chair kept him firmly in place. The sound of squeaky wheels, and the rattle of metal against metal, the hushed voices of Perseus' mysterious crew. The unfamiliar sounds made Steve uneasy. They went on for some time however, and Steve's fuzzy mind had nearly forgotten about them when the door opened behind him.

"Perseus, what is this all about?" Steve asked, expecting to see the fat man with his stupid purple tie.

But it was not Perseus.

Two men in long lab coats and goggles came around to stand in front of him, a gurney pushed between them. Steve looked warily at the heavy velcro straps that crossed the wheeled bed. A third figure, a woman, came around Steve's other side with something in her hand. It looked like a mask of some kind, connected to a rubber hose.

Steve really wasn't liking the looks of that gurney. There was something ominous about it. Honest fear rose in his throat for the first time since they'd brought him here. They had to be taking him somewhere; but where? Why? Were they going to kill him?

"Hey guys, what's all this for?" Steve asked, a nervous chuckle bubbling from his lips.

Without answering, the woman leaned forward and pressed the mask firmly over his mouth and nose. There was a hiss, then a cool mist streamed into his lungs as he breathed. The smell was sweet, almost minty, but Steve struggled against it. He shouted, craning his neck wildly to escape the mask, but the woman simply moved with him, keeping the mask in place.

The world began to drip like wet paint down a canvas then, suddenly, everything was yanked out from under him and he was swallowed by the sweet, minty darkness.

* * *

_Light. _

_Darkness._

_Light._

_Darkness._

Lights and ceiling panels passed before Steve's eyes in a rhythmic beat that matched the _squeak, squeak, squeak_ of the gurney's wheel. His eyelids were heavy as lead, and he squinted, scowling in a desperate attempt to lift them. Coherent thoughts were completely beyond reach, and all Steve could do was watch through half-lidded eyes as he was pushed by. . . someone, he had forgotten who, through a set of double doors. The lights came to a stop above him. Or perhaps he came to a stop below them, he couldn't tell.

Figures appeared over him, adjusting equipment and aiming lights. There were four of them, and they were all nearly identical, their identities hidden under gowns, masks, gloves and goggles.

"He's awake," one said. His voice was muffled as if spoken from a long distance, and Steve was confused. He was right there. Why was his voice so funny? Steve felt the urge to laugh, but his body wouldn't obey him.

"God _damn_," said another, "this guy's a monster. Give him more, I guess. He's had enough to kill a horse already, but little more couldn't hurt."

There was a shifting and slight movement, and Steve was sent tumbling backwards.

* * *

Bucky Barnes slept for fourteen hours, lying motionless even after the sedatives wore off. Natasha, on the other hand, didn't so much as doze off. Clinton napped beside her, his head resting his head against the wall, but she wouldn't allow herself to sleep. Who knew what would happen when Bucky awoke.

Dr. Steinman had pumped Bucky full of antibiotics and, as he had said, the fever broke before the sun rose. The red glow in his cheeks faded and Natasha noticed that the tension around his mouth and eyes seemed to lessen.

It was nearly nine in the morning when Bucky's eyes fluttered. The sun streamed through the curtains and bathed the room in a golden light. He blinked drowsily for several moments as he tried to focus on the room around him. Natasha stood, moving to stand beside Bucky's bed. She moved slowly, as if any sudden movements would frighten him away.

"Bucky," Natasha said quietly, "How are you feeling?"

Bucky slowly turned his head to look at her. He looked much better. The dark circles around his eyes were nearly gone and a bandaid was stuck high on his cheek. A bruise flourished out from under the bandage, purple and blue like some exotic bird. His eyes were clear and focused easily on Natasha's face.

Bucky took a breath, "I'm. . .," he paused, "I'm okay." He glanced around him and began to look somewhat uncertain, "Where are we?"

"A hospital in Nebraska. Clinton and I," Natasha gestured back at the dozing Hawkeye, "found you on the side of a highway. You've been asleep for nearly fifteen hours."

Bucky struggled into a sitting position, wrestling with the sheets and pillows for leverage, "You're Romanoff? SHIELD, right?"

Natasha nodded, "Before you passed out you said Steve told you to find me."

Bucky swung his legs off the bed and looked down at his good arm with a scowl, "What's this?"

"It's an IV, you had a fever last night, Mr. Barnes, and you had some kind of panic attack." Natasha wasn't sure how much it was safe to tell the man. She just didn't know the condition he was in. Last night Bucky had been tremendously unstable, but now he seemed fine.

Bucky ripped the needle from his arm with impatience and stood. He listed slightly, but caught himself on the bedstead. After a few failed attempts to regain his balance, he sat back down.

"Mr. Barnes, do you remember anything? What can you tell me?"

Bucky began casting around for his boots. "Not much. I remember I was picked up by some goons, but," Bucky shook his head, "Most of that is just a horrible blur. I was kept in a store room, and there was a chair. The kind you'd find at the dentist's." Bucky screwed his eyes shut, halting the search for his shoes. His voice was hoarse, but he either didn't notice or didn't care. "I remember being in the back of a car, and then Rogers standing over me telling me to find you."

"Do you remember any details? Names? Faces?" Natasha probed.

"Daltex," he said suddenly, opening his eyes.

"What?"

"One of the women had a blue shirt. There was a bit of embroidery over the breast pocket. A company logo, I think. Daltex."

Daltex. Where had she heard that name before? It was so familiar that it sent her mind into a whirlwind of frustration. It was just on the tip of her tongue, but the memory refused to show itself. Where could she have possibly heard of-

Then she remembered.

"Daltex," she whispered. "God damn."

Of course she knew the name. In fact, she knew the very shirt Bucky was talking about.

Vera Dominika was wearing it at that very moment in her cell back at SHIELD headquarters. The woman who had tried to _blow up_ New York with a train bomb.

Natasha closed her eyes, feeling her stomach drop into her boots,"Steve's been captured by _Hydra_."

* * *

A deep, dull ache woke Steve. It took his baffled mind a moment to locate the source of the pain. It centered in his lower back, glowing with dark embers of discomfort that shot down his legs and up his spine.

He took a breath, trying to clear his thoughts. What did he remember? He remembered the woman with the mask and the sweet smelling gas, and the gurney and. . . that was it. Had he been in surgery?

Steve opened his eyes, giving them time to focus on the view in front of him. He was lying on his stomach with his head turn sharply to the right. That itself caused a twinge of discomfort in his neck, but it went nearly unnoticed next to the earth-shattering pain in his back.

The only light in the room was the only too familiar glow of fluorescent bulbs. The light they gave was white and harsh and sterile, like a hospital.

There was a baby-blue box of some kind before Steve's eyes. It was perhaps the size of a paperback novel and was covered in all sorts of dials and knobs. Two or three tubes ran out the back and out of Steve's line of sight. A large, fat hand with perfectly manicured nails was in the middle of turning one of the knobs a down notch. Steve wasn't sure what to make of this, before the pain in his back grew exponentially. He let out a groan.

"Oh, _I'm sorry_, does that hurt?" Said a sarcastic voice.

It took a surprising amount of effort for Steve to turn his head and look up at the fat man who stood over him. It was Perseus. Steve could even see his trademark purple silk tie.

The fat hand clicked the knob down another notch and after a few moments, the pain doubled. It was no longer a deep-set ache, but sharp, burning agony that flowed through his veins. Steve came to the conclusion that Perseus was messing with his morphine. The bastard.

"What did you do to me?" Steve asked. His voice whistled weakly between gritted teeth.

Perseus pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards, his arms resting on the chair's back. "Bone marrow, Steve. Bone marrow."

Steve's mind raced, "You took my _bone marrow_?"

Perseus nodded as if this were a very reasonable thing, "Yes."

He turned the knob down yet another notch.

Steve gave a long, drawn out groan and buried his face in the rough sheets of his bed. The morphine was completely off now, and the last few drops were working their way out of his system. Steve began to feel sick, his head started to spin and bright stars nearly blocked out Perseus' face.

"Why the hell would you need that?"

Perseus shook his head and clicked his tongue, "Sorry Steve. I can't tell you that just yet," he said, as if he were a grandfather refusing to let his grandchild unwrap a Christmas present early. He leaned forward in his chair and turned the morphine knob back up. Relief spread over Steve like a cool mist.

"You'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

**Alright, there's another chapter! As always thanks for reading and double-thanks for reviewing! Reviews are 100% the things that keep me writing! **

**On another note, I'm sorry my updating is so erratic. I might install a release schedule sometime in the the future but my internet is super crappy right now so that could slow things up a bit. ^^**


	8. Vera

"Do you know where they kept you?"

"No, Romanoff," Bucky said for the third time.

Natasha sat back in her seat, releasing an exasperated breath in one heavy sigh. She sat shotgun in the SHIELD sedan, with Clinton at the wheel. Bucky sat in the back seat, staring out the window with a expression that mirrored the way Natasha felt. Frustrated.

Dr. Steinman had released Bucky from the hospital with reluctance. He protested that if Bucky was experiencing some form of head trauma, it could be dangerous or even lethal to move him. Mr. Barnes himself would have none of it and simply walked out of the hospital as Natasha tried to convince the doctor of Bucky's good health.

Clinton stepped on the gas, passing a red minivan full of children. He had been furious when Natasha had told him of Hydra's resurgence and their capturing Steve.

"_We just put them down!_" He had shouted, "_They're like cockroaches. What will it take to kill those guys_?"

Clinton turned down an exit ramp, honking his way through the Chicago traffic. A few minutes later, surrounded by the glass, towering skyscrapers of the city, he pulled into SHIELD headquarters. Natasha was sick and tired of travel after driving from Chicago to Nebraska and back in two days. She was getting antsy. Steve, one of her own, was in danger and she had to sit in a car with a cocky archer and a ninety-seven year old, mentally unstable war hero watching as rows of corn sped by her window.

She stepped out of the car, stretching slightly and enjoying the freedom. She heard Bucky climb out behind her. He had been quiet, speaking only when spoken to and even then he said little. He stared out his window, taking in the bright blue sky and golden farmlands as if he were looking for something. He showed no signs of a mental breakdown and seemed for all the world like a normal man. Perhaps a bit abrasive and quiet, but, for the most part, healthy. Perhaps she could call Banner down to take a look at him.

"Vera Dominka should still be in the prison, right?" Clinton said, using the nickname given to the small, windowless room SHIELD used as a holding area.

Natasha pushed through the glass doors, followed quickly by her companions, "That's what Maria said over the phone. She said Dominka hasn't made a peep this whole time. She seems pretty content with Steve's offer of absolute safety."

Clinton shook his head with distaste. Natasha couldn't say she agreed with the offer either. Every last member of Hydra had to be taken care of, like so many strains of the same, deadly virus to keep it from re-emerging. But Steve had given the Russian woman his word, and that was all SHIELD had left. They would honor Steve's promise of safety. Maria Hill was taking care of that, arranging for some kind of government witness protection both to keep Hydra from taking Dominika back, and to keep her out of trouble.

A few staff members lingered in the halls of the headquarters, and they all stared at Bucky Buchanan Barnes. They would oggle for a moment, only to scurry away and hastily return to their business. Everyone knew Bucky Barnes. His face had been plastered over the news. '_Mysterious Shooter Terrorizes Freeway'_, the newspapers had said. The news articles had since been removed, every picture of Bucky and mention of SHIELD wiped away by SHIELD's own computer genius'.

Even then, whenever Steve was in one of his nostalgic moods he would speak briefly about his encounter with Bucky. Natasha had pieced together most, if not all, of the story from Steve's various monologues. Bucky had been Steve's friend during World War II, but was lost. Steve hadn't said how. Then he was picked up by Hydra, brainwashed, and sent after Steve with orders to kill him, but Bucky had let Steve go at the last minute and faded out of existence. At least, until he was re-captured by Hydra.

Natasha shook her head. It was the sad story of a sad man, but the past couldn't be changed. All Natasha wanted to do was give the story a happy ending.

Natasha knocked on the door to Maria Hill's office.

"Come in," Maria called. Her eyes widened and she got to her feet as she saw Bucky, but she did her best to avoid staring. "Mr. Barnes," she said quickly, doing her best to be polite despite her surprise.

Bucky didn't reply.

"Maria, I need the keys to the prison," Natasha said.

Maria dug in her desk drawer for a moment before handing Natasha the little key, "She's been quiet as a mouse since you called," Maria said, gesturing to the monitor behind her desk. It showed a grainy black and white video feed from a small, sparsely furnished room. Vera Dominika sat on a cot with a book on her lap. "Did you find anything?" she asked.

Natasha nodded, "Hydra. Can you track the license plate of the van that took Steve?"

Maria's eyes widened slightly before she nodded and sat back behind her computer, her fingers already clacking away on the keyboard, "I'm on it."

The lock to Vera's room opened with a sharp _clack_, but Natasha didn't open the door. "Let me go first," she said, "Clinton, Mr. Barnes, you two are too intimidating, we don't want to scare her off, got it?"

Clinton nodded and Natasha opened the door, stepping in before quietly closing it behind her. "Vera Dominika?"

Vera looked up from her place on the small bed. Her blond hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, heightening the sharpness of her cheekbones. She closed the book she held in her hands and put it on the bed next to her. Natasha couldn't see the book's title. The Russian woman wore a dark indigo shirt and, yes, there it was. _Daltex_ embroidered over the breast pocket.

"Natasha Romanoff," Vera said, getting to her feet. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" Vera's slightly accented words held no trace of sarcasm, as if she were truly pleased to see Natasha.

Natasha shifted on her feet and put her hands together; a social cue that she knew would make her look open and honest. "I've come about your protection. Agent Hill is working on getting you a safe new home and identity."

Vera smiled, her straight white teeth showing between her thin lips, "That is great news."

"I do have one question, though," Natasha said, "I have reason to believe Hydra took custody of one James Barnes some time ago. Would you know anything about that?"

Vera hesitated, "Yes. I heard one of my bosses talking about it. They find him in Iowa."

"Do you know why?"

"I do not know. I only know they find him, they keep him for many weeks, taking blood samples."

"Blood samples? What for?"

Vera shook her head, "Again, I don't know. They do surgery once though, for, oh, what do you call it in english? Bone. . . filling?"

A chill went down Natasha's spine. "Bone marrow?" She said slowly, hoping she was wrong.

"Ah, marrow. That is the word. They get bone marrow one time, along with the blood samples."

"Bone marrow?" Said Bucky.

Natasha spun on her heels. She hadn't even heard the door open. Bucky was staring at Vera, his eyes wide and hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Clinton gave Natasha an apologetic glance from the doorway.

"You," Bucky pointed to Vera, "I remember you, I remember you." He put a hand to his head, "_I remember you!_"

Vera backed up but tripped on the bed, sitting hard on the mattress as she watched Bucky with wide, wary eyes.

Bucky crouched, putting one hand on the floor while his other hand was firmly placed against his temple, "Why do I know you?!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with the sheer volume of the shriek.

"Bucky, calm down!" Natasha said, "You're safe! You're okay! Vera, what is he talking about?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" Vera cried, "I've never met him before!"

Bucky suddenly jumped to his feet and grabbed Natasha by the shoulders in an iron grip, "Rogers! The bone marrow, the blood! Don't you see?" He said. His eyes were wild and his voice was loud and harsh.

Natasha tried to push out of his grip, but he was too strong, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.. In an instant Clinton was beside her, trying to pry her from Bucky's grasp.

"Don't you see?" He cried as Clinton tore Natasha from his grip, "I wasn't good enough! _They're making another!_"

Then he gave a pained yell of frustration and rage, clutching his head before collapsing like an empty sack to the floor.

* * *

Steve was confined to his bed for three days. His wrists were sore and chaffed raw from the bindings that kept him in place, but the pain in his back lessened and finally disappeared altogether. The morphine machine was turned off and eventually taken away.

Perseus had not been to see him since the _incident_ with the painkillers, but Steve had seen plenty of his minions. No matter how he talked to, goaded, insulted, or flattered them, the masked doctors would never give a word of response.

The fog that had plagued Steve's mind was completely gone. Either they had given up drugging him or had simply decided the big man was compliant enough without it. Steve was grateful nonetheless. He had to get out of there and he needed a clear mind to do it. Perseus was planning something, and all of these experiments didn't bode well. He had to get out and find Natasha.

Natasha.

Had Bucky managed to find her? God, he hoped so, but Bucky hadn't been in any shape to do anything let alone make the nine-hundred-mile journey to Chicago.

Thinking of his friend sent a shiver of anxious energy coursing through Steve and he shuddered against the mattress. He couldn't stay there. No.

He pulled against the straps, testing them. Then, he pulled his hands up, trying to tear them free of the velcro bonds. He strained silently against them, pouring every ounce of strength he had into his arms. They burned horribly, and it felt like his muscles were ripping apart, the effort was so great. He scowled and gritted his teeth, the tendons standing out in his neck, and with one final tug, he heard something snap.

The strap around his right wrist had broken clean off.

He hastily pulled his hand free, using it to release his other arm from the bonds. He hadn't expected the straps to break, but with the debilitating fog gone from his mind it had been a relatively easy business. Perseus had grown woefully negligent. Once he freed his feet, he stood unsteadily, his bare feet feeling the cold of the tile beneath him. Sweat speckled his face and his wrists were bloody from straining against the bindings, but he had done it. He was free.

It was time to go.

* * *

**Thanks for reading and, as always, double thanks for reviewing! Your reviews really mean the world to me! ^^**


	9. Windows

In his hospital room, Steve moved quickly to the door. He took one step, then lurched forward to grab the doorframe as his knees trembled dangerously, threatening to pitch him to the floor. Stunned, he stared at his hand, watching as it trembled against the wood of the frame. His legs felt weak and now that he was standing, his spine ached with a dull insistence.

What was wrong with him? Steve didn't know much about it, but he was sure that donating bone marrow was a common thing to do nowadays. Surely the side effects couldn't be crippling. . . .right? Spending God knows how long lying down couldn't have helped, either.

He straightened, forcing his wobbly legs to comply. Now was most definitely not the time for weakness. He could worry about that later. But if they caught him again. . . Well, he would have other things to worry about if they caught him. And he wasn't about to let that happen.

Steve peered out into the hallway. The the left, the sterile white walls stretched out as far as he could see. To the right, the corridor ended in a pair of large double doors. It was as good a place to start as any. He listened carefully for a moment, but heard nothing. Not even the sound of distant footsteps broke the silence. With more effort than he was used to, he broke into a jog and headed for the doors.

He pushed through and found that the corridor opened up into a large office-like room. Tables laden with magazines dotted the rows of chairs that lined the walls. Instead of tile, cheap industrial carpet covered the floor, and the room was lit by the same harsh fluorescent lights that Steve had grown accustomed to.

Steve heard a gasp, and saw that a tiny woman sat behind the desk, previously unnoticed. Her hair was black and she wore a pristine white coat with name tag that read 'Christine'. She looked as if she were about to scream, but she uttered no sound. Steve darted over to her, his finger pressed to his lips.

"Don't scream, please don't scream," he pleaded, looking around the room for any means of escape. There was another door near the desk.

"Oh, my God, Mr. Rogers, you shouldn't be up!" Christine squeaked finally, getting quickly to her feet, "You should be lying down!"

Steve ignored her, "Where am I? How do I get out of here?" He came around the desk, and the small woman shrunk back into her seat.

"You're in the hospital wing, sir," she said, "but really, you need to sit down. The donation process can really take a lot out of a person."

Steve cast his eyes around the desk, and found what he was looking for.

"I'm really sorry about this," he said a moment later, wrapping the woman's wrists with layer upon layer of tape.

She squirmed, "Please, Mr. Rogers, go back to your room. You're really in no condition to be up, plus the guards will-"

"The guards can't do anything if they don't know I'm here."

Without any apparent haste, the woman lifted her leg and tapped the bottom of her desk with the tip of her shoe. No, not the bottom of the desk, Steve realized. She had hit a small red button. An alarm.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but they do know. You really shouldn't be up and about."

Steve swore, leaping over the desk for the door. His back twinged, but he didn't notice. She had called the guards. He swore again, bursting out the office door. He faced yet another hallway, but this one was not as severe-looking as the other. No one was in sight, so he jogged down the corridor in search of any clues, any hints as to where he was. Was he underground? Above ground? His hospital room didn't have any windows, so Steve decided his best bet was to find some stairs and head up. He opened another door at random, not bothering to be careful. The alarm was triggered, he only had so much time before they found him anyway.

Beyond was yet another corridor, but this one wasn't empty. Six black-clad men with helmets and guns looked over their shoulders, shouting as they saw Steve. One raised his gun, and Steve closed the door hurriedly. He continued down the hallway, searching desperately for stairs. He could hear the men bursting through the door behind him, shouting at him to stop and raise his hands over his head. Steve did not raise his hands, but urged his trembling legs faster and faster, racing down the carpeted hall.

Someone let off a warning shot and the bullet slammed into the wall to his right. He jerked left in surprise, slamming into the opposite wall and almost stumbling. Finally, after what seemed like miles of corridor, he found a sign with the universal symbol for stairs stamped in white on it's surface. Without slowing down he pushed through, but came to a sudden stop once inside.

The concrete stairs stretched up and down with simple iron railings to keep one from falling all the way to the bottom floor. However far that was, Steve was unsure. A large '_F23_' was painted on the wall. Steve stared at it blankly for a moment before the thunderous sound of feet came up the stairwell, followed quickly by five or six more gun-bearing men. Making a split decision, Steve leapt up the stairs. If he was on the 23rd floor, he'd have to find another way down. There was no way he could fight half a dozen men in his current state.

He jumped up the stairs as quickly as he could and darted out the door on the next level. Yet another hallway faced him, and in despair he picked a direction at random and ran. The men made it up the stairs and began firing their guns. Bullets peppered the ground and walls around Steve, but by luck or grace, none of them hit him. But that didn't mean that none of them would. He careened through yet another door and stopped dead.

In the large office, behind a desk made of dark ebony, sat a man. He was outlined by the light from the windows, but sure enough it was him. Behind the desk, with his stupid purple tie lying over his fat stomach, sat Perseus.

"Ah, Steve," Perseus said, folding his hands together, "I heard you had esca-"

Steve crashed into Perseus before he could even finish his sentence. Perseus' chair tipped over and the two of them went tumbling to the floor. Steve had Perseus by the lapels and shook him until his eyepatch nearly rattled free. Perseus' face was bright red, his scars standing out even more prominently than usual.

"Who are you?" Steve shouted. "What do you want with me?"

Perseus began to laugh despite his situation, "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

Steve lifted a fist and punched Perseus across the face, then pulled him close. He could smell the sweat on the fat man, and could see it glisten on his brow. In a low growl Steve said, "See that window behind you? Well, wouldn't it be just awful if someone were to toss you out of it?"

Perseus paled. He licked his lips, "Steve, come now, let's all just calm down and-"

Steve punched him again, and a thin line of blood trickled from Perseus' nose, "I won't ask you again. Who the are you and what do you want with me? What the hell did you do to Bucky?"

Suddenly a look of realization came over Perseus' face, "I see I underestimated you, Mr. Rogers. You honestly care for him, don't you? Even after all this time."

"Shut up. I saw what condition he was in. What did you do to him, you bastard?"

Perseus seemed to compose himself, "It's nothing I did, Mr. Rogers. Did you ever consider it was something_ you_ did?"

Steve leaned back, "What?"

Perseus shook his head, "The future is at hand and, whether you want it or not, you are a a part of it. The wheels have been set in motion. Strike me again if it makes you feel better, but it's not going to change anything."

"And if I kill you?"

Perseus' eyes rolled in his head, giving away his panic. However, his voice was both calm and sarcastic as he drawled, "I think we both know you are not capable of killing, Mr. Rogers."

Before Steve could say anything more, the door behind him burst open and a dozen men rushed into the room. Their guns were trained on Steve, and the men looked ready to use them.  
Steve stood, dropping Perseus to the floor. The man fell, the breath _whoosh_ing out of him. Steve backed towards the window. He couldn't fight all those men, not all at once. He couldn't escape through the door, and the only other way out was-

"Hands above your head!" One cried, "Hands above your head, now!"

Steve raised his hands, but peered out the window behind him. It really wasn't that far, was it? Only, what, twenty-four stories?

"Steve, I will bring about a new age. An age of justice and power," Perseus said, heaving himself up to his elbows. "An age of aggression."

Steve made as if to walk slowly towards the men. "Not today," he said, before turning and leaping through the window in a storm of shouts and shattered glass.

* * *

After Bucky had collapsed, Natasha had dashed to his side as Clinton went to comfort the distraught Vera Dominika. The Russian woman shook and trembled, utterly shocked by the events that had unfolded before her.

Natasha was quite shocked herself. She shook Bucky, only to find the man hadn't fainted at all. He lay curled in on himself and when Natasha tried to speak to him, he only swore at her, then at himself, then at the world in general, his head still clutched between his hands.

Ten minutes later, Bucky sat at the break-room table with a double-expresso in his hands and a scowl on his face. The dark shadows had returned to his eyes, and after minutes coaxing Natasha still couldn't get him to utter a word. His mouth remained a twisted, sour grimace and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"He won't say anything," Natasha said quietly. She and Clinton stood in the hall, looking through the narrow window into the break room. Bucky took a swig of coffee, ignoring the scalding steam.

"Something's wrong with him, Natasha. He's dangerous." Clinton replied.

Natasha shook her head, still looking at the man through the window, "He's not dangerous."

Clinton scowled, "Did you not see him back there? God, he could have killed you!"

"That was not going to happen! He wouldn't have gone that far. Clinton, we just need to call Banner."

"It's more than his head. It's deeper than that," Clinton shook his head, "They did something to him, Natasha. It's dark business. Just look at him. He's sick. He's not right."

"Nothing can be broken that can't be fixed," she said. "He just needs help."

"Some things can't be fixed, Natasha. There are somethings that are beyond broken. You can't fix a mind that's gone."

"Are you saying he's insane?"

"You heard what the doctor said as well as I did." Clinton sighed, "I'm only saying you need to prepare for the worst. We should find a second option."

Bucky tossed back the rest of his coffee, then looked through the window and straight into Natasha's eyes. She looked away hurriedly.

"That man in there? If we expect to find Steve, we need him talking. Without him, we haven't a chance and I am not letting Steve rot in that place. I am getting him out even if I have to go to hell and back to do it. He is our only option." Natasha brushed by Clinton , striding towards her office, "I'm getting Banner and we are fixing Bucky Barnes."

* * *

**Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing! All of you are seriously the best! ^^**


	10. Thin Air

"Bruce?"

"Hello? Who is this?" Bruce Banner's voice sounded over the tinny phone speaker.

"It's Natasha," she said, pressing the phone to her ear. She stood in the hall of the Chicago headquarters, leaning against the door frame of an empty office. Red locks of hair kept falling in front of her eyes, and she brushed them away with impatience. She could hear the low murmur of a crowd over the phone; the wailing of a child, a voice raised in greeting. The hustle and bustle of life.

While she couldn't see him, Natasha knew Bruce Banner was either rolling his eyes or ripping out his hair with frustration at SHIELD's reappearance. "Again? Can't you just leave me alone? Wasn't New York enough for you guys?"

A smile twisted Natasha's lips, "Sorry Doc, but we've got a real tricky situation. How soon can you be here?"

Bruce had to shout over the hubbub around him, but Natasha could still hear unwilling concern in his voice,"Natasha, I'm in Cairo. Why? What's going on? Has something happened?"

"Do you remember James Buchanan Barnes? Steve's buddy from six months ago? He caused all that trouble, then disappeared right after."

"Yeah. Poor guy, but what does he have to do-"

"We found him."

Bruce's voice was quiet when he said, "Oh."

"He's messed up. Hydra did something to his brain and he has some form of psychosis." Natasha gave a grim chuckle, "He had some kind of fit today, just about scared the hell out of me. He's off his rocker, Doc, but we need him talking. Can you come down and take a look at him? Soon?"

"Did he see something? Why do you need him?"

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, but did not hesitate before saying, "Hydra has Steve and Bucky may be able to tell us where."

The phone was silent for a long time. "I'll get on a plane tonight," Bruce finally said. Reluctance was heavy in his voice, but Natasha knew he would make good on his word.

"Good man. I'll send someone to pick you up."

Bruce muttered something unkind about airports and planes in Cairo before hanging up. Natasha slipped the phone back into her pocket. Bruce was a good guy, but he was no psychologist. Hell, Natasha wasn't even sure if he was even a certified doctor. Sure, he knew a lot about the nuclear sciences, but whether he knew anything about nursing Natasha couldn't say. But having fought alongside him in New York, Natasha knew that Bruce was a kindly, gentle soul with some. . . rough patches. If anyone could cure Bucky, it would be Bruce Banner.

"Natasha!"

Natasha whirled around to see Clinton jogging down the hall towards her. He was waving a piece of paper in one hand and, slowing to a stop, he handed it to her. She took it, examining

"Natasha, did you call Banner?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said distractedly, "He'll be coming down tomorrow. What's this?"

"I did some research on Daltex. Remember? Bucky was talking about it."

Natasha nodded and scanned the paper. It was a list of some kind. An order sheet. Items with chemical names she couldn't pronounce were lined up in neat rows, followed by lot numbers and prices. "What is all this?"

"Pharmaceuticals, Natasha. Daltex is a company that produces drugs and medicine. Aspirin, cough medicine, allergy suppressants, you name it, Daltex makes it. But," Clinton said, his eyes bright, "not only is it a medicine company. It is _the largest_ brand name sold in commercial stores. Hell, we probably have Daltex aspirin in the break room right now. I have this stuff in my cabinets at home. I'd bet you that every household in America has Daltex stuffed away somewhere."

"Why the hell has Hydra taken over a medicine company?" Natasha muttered, "What could they need it for?"

Clinton shook his head, "Who can say?"

Natasha shook her head. They could worry about that later. "Where's the nearest warehouse?"

Clinton pulled out his phone, reading from the small screen, "The warehouse closest to Nebraska is in Salt Lake City. It's also the headquarters. If Steve is anywhere, I'll bet you it's there."

Natasha sighed, leaning back against the wall behind her. She closed her eyes and breathed. Relief was flooding through her as if a dam of emotion had broken, allowing her knees to wobble and her heart beat faster. Finally. _Finally_ they were having some luck. It was about damn time.

"Alright," she said, pulling herself together, "Banner's coming tomorrow for Bucky. If Banner can rewire his brain and get him talking, Bucky will be able to help us get Steve out. He knows everything about Daltex, and the information could be the thing that gets Steve out of there alive."

Clinton frowned, "You heard what Dominika said. God, Natasha, they could be doing anything to him. We have to get him out of there now. You know that! He could be hurt or _killed_ at any second, we can't just-"

"They don't know we're coming." Natasha interrupted, "We'll have surprise on our side, but only this once. Clint, if our first extraction attempt fails then they'll bolt and Steve will be gone for good," Natasha leaned forward, and Clinton could see the determination in her eyes. She jabbed a finger into his chest, "You _damn_ well know that I want Steve back as much as you do. And we are _going_ to get him out, but we're going to do it right."

"Alright," Clinton said, seeing the sense in Natasha's words. In all honesty, he didn't want to argue with her. Under the all determination in her eyes, Clinton saw something else. She was tired. It was made even more evident by the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her skin. "Get some sleep, Natasha," he said. "When was the last time you slept?"

Natasha counted back the days, surprised to realize she had not slept for more than two days. Exhaustion pulled at her limbs, dragging her bones down and dulling her reflexes. Her mind felt muddled and the very thought of sleep made her weary beyond belief.

She nodded, "Yeah. Bucky should, too. Tomorrow's going to be an exciting day for him."

"I'll get him a room," Clinton said, giving Natasha a push. "You go get some shuteye."

Clinton watched as the woman walked down the hall, ducking into a stairwell that lead to the upper levels of SHIELD headquarters. She never said it, but Clinton knew this whole Hydra affair was beginning to wear Natasha down. Just when they thought they were done, yet another strain of Hydra surfaces and the rag-tag band of heroes, genius' and gods would have to join hands again to bring them down. There were always losses in warfare, but recently the losses had been especially difficult on everyone. The disbanding of SHIELD, Steve's loss of Bucky and now Steve himself was threatening to become yet another fatality on the list that grew larger every day. It was too much for anyone to take and stay sane.

He sighed, breaking free from his reverie. Making his way back to the break room, he stood in the door. Bucky still sat at the table, another cup of coffee steaming in front of him. Clinton cleared his throat, and Bucky turned his head sharply to look at him.

"You must be tired from the trip. We've got a room for you, if you want to sleep." Clinton said awkwardly. He still wasn't sure what to think of Bucky. He was strange, that was sure. But Clinton still wasn't sure that Bucky was. . . safe. Hell, Bucky had worked for Hydra for who knew how long. Who's to say he didn't still?

Bucky nodded slowly and got to his feet, leaving his coffee forgotten on the table. "Yes," he said curtly.

Bucky followed Clinton out of the break room and up the stairs Natasha had climbed minutes earlier. Late nights were often pulled at SHIELD headquarters and sometimes the staff just needed a place to crash. Bucky didn't say a word as they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and padded out into the hall, but Clinton could feel Bucky's heavy gaze on his back. His neck tingled and his hair stood on end, but he said nothing.

Finally, Clinton motioned Bucky towards a door, "There's your room. You'd better get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be. . ." Clinton hesitated, wondering how much to tell him. "Busy."

Bucky slowly opened the door and stepped inside, but stopped short of closing the door. "How long ago was it?" He asked, his eyes downcast.

Clinton, who had made to leave, turned back. "How long ago was what?"

"The accident."

Clinton assumed Bucky meant the train accident back in Germany. Steve had told the story when he was about as close to drunk as he could get. The tale had been enough to stir even Clint's heart, and the wariness in Clinton's chest turned suddenly to pity. "Seventy years," he said quietly. "It was seventy years ago."

Bucky gazed at the hand that still held the door handle. It was heavy and cold, and the polished metal gleamed in the harsh office lighting. Then, so softly that Clinton almost missed it, Bucky said, "Seventy years is a long, long time." And then he closed the door and silence fell.

* * *

For Steve Rogers, time seemed to slow. As he leapt out into open space, a flare of glass sprayed out before him, catching the light as the fragments turned in the air. A city sprawled out before and beneath him. A great ring of mountains cupped the landscape in its great, snow-capped embrace and the evening sun glinted brightly off of windows and cars, nearly blinding him. For a moment, the world stood still and the beauty of it all made Steve's heart flip in his chest. But then the moment passed, and Steve began to fall. The wind tore at his clothes, ripped at his hair, the chillness of it biting his exposed skin.

Looking down, sudden panic flared through him as he realized it was too far. The fall was too great to survive, even for him. But then, as soon as it had come, the panic was replaced with peace. In what little time he had left for thoughts, Steve decided he would rather die on his own terms than suffer at the hands of Perseus for the rest of eternity anyway.

The ground flew up to meet him at a surprising speed. Just like Bucky, Steve thought. Just like Bucky, falling from the train. Steve just hoped that his fate would be quicker and more permanent than Bucky's was.

Then he hit the ground with an explosion of water and gravel, and everything went black.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed!**

**And, as always, double thanks for reviewing! You guys are really the only reason I keep writing. It's all for you. ^^**


	11. Fixing Bucky Barnes

Natasha lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling into the early hours of the morning. Her body was exhausted, her eyes ached and her head pounded with all she had done and all she had yet to do.

But the thoughts that kept her eyes wide and her heart thudding were her thoughts of Steve Rogers. They were close. They were so, so close to getting him back, but he was still tantalizingly out of reach. They had his location. They had his exact damn address, but they couldn't act. They had to wait. They had to do this the right way, or not at all. They needed information on the facility, on the staff, on the work hours. They needed as much information as they could get their hands on, but they did not have enough. Not yet, anyway.

Bucky would be an immense help once Banner fixed him up, and Natasha was sure that Vera Dominika had more information than she was letting on. The Russian woman had refused to say another word after Bucky's surprising seizure, pushing all three of them out the door even before Bucky was was back on his feet.

Not wishing to upset the woman, Natasha decided it would be best to leave her to her own devices for awhile. Better to wait and not prod her further than she was willing to go. It was all a delicate process that took patience. It was all so damn delicate that Natasha was left itching for action. She had to do something. Anything that kept her body moving and her mind busy. She could not just sit around when so much was at stake.

But in truth, she had no choice.

So waited she did. She lay in bed for hours until finally she dropped off, and even then her dreams were plagued.

In the morning, she woke quickly and splashed her face with cold water from the bathroom tap, washing away the last of the sleep that clung stubbornly to her eyelashes. If anything, sleeping had made her even more tired. She felt groggy, but it was nothing a few cups of espresso couldn't cure. But the itch for action remained, so she left Clinton to research Daltex's doings, Maria Hill to watch Bucky's door, and started up the black sedan in the parking lot outside.

Maria had told her over a quick breakfast that Bucky hadn't made a peep all night. SHIELD didn't often spy on the living quarters, but that didn't mean the cameras weren't there. Bucky had simply lain down on his mattress and stayed there, sleeping on through the night and onwards into morning. He still hadn't moved when Natasha grabbed the keys and headed out into the busy morning thoroughfare.

She hoped he was okay. God, she hoped he was okay.

These thoughts urged her even faster through Chicago traffic, weaving and dancing around other cars as she sped along towards Banner's hotel.

The Doctor had chosen a relatively cheap looking motel as his temporary lodgings. The neon sign proudly displayed the words, '_HOTEL PARADISIO_', along with a green '_vacancy_' sign glowing dejectedly beneath it. It was a long building dotted with doors and windows, stretching out just beyond the parking lot. Natasha drove along, finally parking the car before the door she had been looking for.

She rapped smartly on the wood, the tin plated numbers rattling alarmingly on their loose nails.

Presently, the door opened to reveal a rather disheveled looking Bruce Banner. He was taller than Natasha, but not by much. His curly hair was black and greying at the temples, and his eyes had the permanent circles of those who stay up late into the night on a regular basis.

He gave her a tired smile and said, "Ms. Romanoff. Please, come in."

Natasha followed Bruce into the small room. Two beds filled what little space there was, along with a table, two chairs and a television that should have been retired years ago. It wasn't exactly paradise, but Natasha supposed it was close enough.

"I'm sorry about my current state," Bruce said, buttoning up his wrinkled shirt and running his fingers through his hair. "My flight was delayed by an hour or two and I got in later than expected."

"No worries, Doc," Natasha replied. "Thanks for coming."

Bruce stuffed his few belongings back into a suitcase and zipped it up, ignoring the edge of cloth he had accidentally trapped in the zipper. "Cairo was getting a bit stuffy, anyway," he said, shrugging away her words, "I needed a vacation."

Natasha chuckled, "I'm sorry that you consider a trip to Chicago to treat a madman a vacation."

"You'd be surprised," Bruce said. He hefted his suitcase and followed Natasha back out the door. He threw his suitcase in the back and swung stiffly into the passenger seat.

The car started with a healthy roar, and in moments they were back on the freeway.

"Where did you find him? Barnes, I mean."

"On the side of the road in Nebraska," Natasha replied dryly. "He was incoherent, Doc. Blabbering away like a madman."

Bruce nodded, "What are his symptoms?"

Natasha sighed, "He was raving when we picked him up. He had a fever, and had some kind of panic attack when we took him to the hospital. The doctor there said he had some kind of psychosis. After that, he was fine," She shrugged, "He won't talk much, but he isn't trying to kill anyone. As far as I can tell, he doesn't have any consistent or long-term symptoms."

"Well, what he went through was pretty traumatic. That kind of behavior can be expected for some time after emotionally intense events."

"We captured a Hydra member, a woman named Dominka. When Bucky caught sight of her, he had some kind of fit. Almost like he was beginning to remember. But-"

"Let me guess," Bruce said with dry humor, "He had no memory of the fit after it occurred? No memory of what he _may have_ been remembering?"

"Exactly," Natasha said, surprised. "Any ideas?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Bruce gaze out onto the Chicago cityscape. "I'll have to test my theory, Natasha. I'm not a psychologist. But if I'm right, things could be about to get pretty bad."

* * *

Half an hour later Natasha and Bruce walked quickly into SHIELD headquarters.

"Any news?" Natasha asked as Maria Hill fell in step with them.

"Bucky's up," Maria said, holding up a tablet.

On the screen, Natasha could see the black and white form of Bucky sitting hunched on the bed. He did not move, but sat with his elbows on his knees and his head hunched low between his shoulders;

"What is he doing?" she asked.

"No idea," Maria said, "But he's been sitting there all morning."

They all came to a halt at the break room door where Clinton was making himself a cup of strong coffee. He looked up as Natasha knocked on the door frame.

"Dr. Banner," Clinton said, crossing the room to shake Bruce's hand. "Good to see you again. I'm sorry we couldn't be meeting again under better circumstances."

Bruce laughed softly, "Maybe we can go out for beer when all of this is over."

Clinton nodded, "A bit of alcohol would not go amiss, that's for sure."

Natasha cleared her throat and asked, "Doc, how do you want to do this?"

"I think you should go with him, Natasha," Clinton said, sipping his coffee. "Bucky seems to like you."

"Is Bucky stable?" Bruce asked.

"No," Clinton shook his head, avoiding Natasha's eyes. "He's a little violent when he's upset."

"Then if he has some fondness for you Natasha, it might be a good idea for you to come along," Banner agreed. "And perhaps someone could make a strong brew of calming tea. Perhaps prepare some smooth jazz."

Maria scoffed, "If we need to resort to tea and jazz to calm him, we're all screwed."

* * *

Natasha knocked gently on Bucky's door, turning the knob when she heard no reply. The man sat on his bed, unmoving and silent as ever. However, when Natasha came into the room, he turned his head to look at her. His curtain of hair was tangled and it hung over his blue eyes in bedraggled locks. His chin and neck were covered with several day's worth of stubble, and the bruise on his cheek had turned a dull purple. Paired with his wrinkled t-shirt and torn jeans, he looked a mess.

Natasha's eyes lingered on Bucky's left arm. The mechanical muscles stood out starkly, highlighted by the ceiling lamp. The red star still glimmered and shone red on his shoulder, but it was scratched as if someone had tried to scrape the mark away.

"Bucky, this is Bruce Banner," Natasha said, making way for Bruce to enter the room. The Doc took a seat before Bucky, but Natasha stood hovering over his shoulders. Bucky watched Bruce with wary eyes, but said nothing.

"I'm going to do a few tests," Bruce said awkwardly. He took a flashlight from his pocket

When Bucky made no move to stop him, Bruce flicked on the flashlight. He carefully brushed Bucky's hair away and shone the light right into his eyes. Their blue became even brighter as the light shone through them, but the dilated pupils did not constrict, as normal pupils do when exposed to bright light. Instead, Bucky flinched and looked away, his eyes unable to take the dim brightness straight on. Bruce tested the other eye to the same affect, and Natasha looked on with interest.

In the next hour or so, Bruce proceeded to poke, jab and question Bucky in ways that even Natasha could not understand. The questions were gentle, simple things that ranged from 'what is your name?' to 'what is the color of the sky?'.

Bucky would answer in the fewest possible words, his voice curt and concise. Natasha wondered at the purpose of such questions, but did not dare interrupt. Banner's voice was low and soothing and the questions were so simple that answering them was almost an unconscious act. They were lulling, and even Natasha found her mind going blank with calm. Perhaps that had been Banner's intent. Lull Bucky into a state of relaxation to better understand his psyche.

Natasha's ears pricked up as she heard Banner's questions suddenly change tact.

"Do you remember Vera Dominka?" Bruce said.

Bucky hesitated, and Natasha worried that the question would bring him out of whatever trance he was currently in. But her fears were allayed as Bucky responded, "Yes."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"She worked for Daltex."

"And what can you tell me about Daltex?"

Bucky scowled, but did not move from his spot on the bed, "They work for Hydra. I was in their custody for a long time, but I don't know anything else about them."

"Why did they keep you in custody?" Banner said, rolling with the topic of conversation.

"They did a lot of tests. I can't remember them all."

"What else? Did they do anything to you?"

"They took-" Bucky's head sunk deeper between his shoulders. His hair covered most of his face, but Natasha could see his scowl had deepened. His eyes had closed, and he bit his lip. When he spoke next, he sounded as if each word was torn from within him, "They took blood samples and bone marrow, and. . . I think they did something to my eyes."

"Do you know who did this?"

"I. . ." Bucky's head raised suddenly, and Natasha nearly gasped as she saw Bucky's pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest began to heave.

Natasha recognized the signs of an impending fit and leapt forward to intervene, but Banner held out an arm to stop her. "Not yet," he mouthed, and Natasha hesitantly stepped back. She glanced up at the camera, it's lens glinting in the light. Maria and Clinton were watching, waiting outside in the hall. If things were to go wrong, they would be ready to leap in and help. Natasha hoped their intervention wouldn't be necessary.

"I . . . don't know." Bucky finally said. Before Banner could say more, Bucky stood. "No more questions," he growled.

Inwardly, Natasha swore. The trance was gone, the moment was broken, and they had no more information than they had when they started. She hoped Banner had at least learned something.

"Thanks, Bucky," Natasha said, and turned to open the door. But just as her hand fell upon the handle, her pocket buzzed and the ringtone filled the small room.

She ignored it and turned the knob, but halted when Bucky hissed, "Answer it."

Natasha turned back to him. His pupils were still the alarming pinpricks, transforming his gaze into a formidable stare. They were hard and insistent, and Natasha saw no need to argue with the obviously unstable man.

She pulled the phone from her pocket and hit the button.

"Hello?" She said.

"Hello, Natasha? _Oh, my God_, it's good to hear your voice."

Natasha was silent for a moment, her heart leaping inside her chest. She felt her stomach flip, her world tilted and her voice shook as she said, "_Steve_?"

* * *

**Thanks for reading and, as always, double thanks for reviewing! You guys are so supportive, it's wonderful! I really appreciate you all! ^^**


	12. To the Old and Homeless

Steve woke to the sensation of cold water flowing over his legs, his arms, his chest and to his sudden panic, his nose and mouth.

Sudden adrenaline flared through him and he thrashed, desperately trying to push his head above water, to breath. Bubbles and grit flowed around him in freezing, cloudy waves that frothed and ebbed with his movements. His lungs burned, but his limbs would not obey him. They flailed about wildly, causing him only more pain as they were scraped bloody and raw.

Finally, one arm shot out of the water. Using what little strength he had, Steve hauled himself up, pulling himself free of the cold. He rolled to his back and lay for a moment, panting and coughing, his chest heaving, his breath shooting out before him in white streams.

Memory flashed in and out of the blackness. The doctors, Perseus, the gunmen and, finally, the fall. Somehow, by some miracle that he couldn't begin to understand, he had escaped death yet again. _But not unscathed_, he thought as all of his pains rushed back to assault him. He hurt everywhere, and he was starkly reminded of his jump from the elevator, back when SHIELD was still a thing. It hadn't been a good idea then, and it hadn't been a good idea this time either. His legs throbbed. His elbows, knees and knuckles were dripping blood from their encounter with the ground and his head felt as though, well, felt as though he had just jumped out a twenty-fourth story window.

But prevailing as king above all pains was the white-hot agony that completely took over his right arm. It was nearly numb from the pain. It must have been the shoulder he landed on. It was either horrifically broken, or completely gone. Steve didn't dare to look.

He took a few steadying breaths before opening his eyes and hauling himself to a sitting position. To his surprise, gravel and huge chunks of concrete lay all around him. He sat in a crater of rock and water, and he could see the remains of a decorative fountain lying shattered some ways off. The water must have broken his fall just enough to keep him alive. Beyond the crater was a black-tarred parking lot filled with fancy executive cars, and beyond that, the great city he had seen in his moments before falling into blackness. Before him, the building that had been his prison for God knew how long stretched up into the sky. It had to be fifty stories tall and made completely of glass. It reflected the sun brightly, but Steve could still make out the giant logo that was plastered to it's side.

_Daltex._

He knew that name. How did he know that name? He stowed that in his ever growing 'stuff-to-think-about-later' folder for later contemplation, and got shakily to his feet. He was relieved and somewhat dismayed to find his right arm was still indeed attached. It would have hurt a lot less if it had simply gone flying off on impact. However, despite the fact that it hung uselessly at his side, he found it thankfully free of awkward angles or protruding bones. If it had been broken, it had at least been a clean break.

Still, it hurt like hell.

He clutched it against his chest with his good hand and jumped from the pile of rubble. When he staggered, going painfully to his knees, he decided that there would be no jumping anywhere for him for a good long while. Clambering to his feet once more, he looked around.

He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know where he was going, so he simply picked a direction and started off in a limping jog. It didn't matter where he was, and he didn't care where he was going. As long as he got away from Perseus and Daltex, he'd be happy.

The city was beautiful, with wide streets and clean sidewalks. The cars were all neatly parked and a friendly-looking metro ran quietly by, it's bell jingling merrily. And even though it was early, with the sun just beginning to peek it's head over the mountains, people were out and going about their business wrapped tightly in warm sweaters and scarves.

By the looks they gave him, Steve knew he must have looked like a crazy asylum escapee, dressed in his scrubs as he was, soaking wet with his knees torn up and his arm clutched desperately to his chest. He didn't blame them. Steve jogged down the nearest ally, not willing to remain in public sight any longer than necessary. If any of Perseus' goons came after him, which they eventually would, any civilian would be able to point them in the right direction.

The sunlight didn't touch the alley. The air became colder, and Steve's nose and hands were numb with cold. He welcomed the chill, though. It helped dampen the pain. However, the burn in his lungs made him stop and slouch down behind a dumpster to catch his breath in the darkness, away from prying eyes.

A plan. He needed a plan.

First things first, he needed new clothes. The scrubs he was wearing would give him away and planted a red dot right on his forehead. Even the blindest of Perseus' men would be able to spot him from a mile off in those clothes.

Second, he needed to find a phone. Once he called Natasha, things would be okay. She'd make things right. She always did. She'd have a helicopter to him in minutes, with doctors and hot food and the safety he had found himself craving over the duration of his confinement. He simply wanted to let go; to let someone else take care of things for awhile. He wasn't proud of that, though. He was damned Captain America. He couldn't feel weakness. The Captain always dove headfirst into danger, willing to do anything in the name of his friends or justice or some other heroic cause.

And he had.

He had given himself up to death just to save a friend.

Then his thoughts strayed once again to the topic of Bucky Barnes. He felt his resolve grow steely once more. By God, he _was_ damned Captain America. He could do whatever the hell he wanted, and what he wanted most at that moment was to take down Perseus; the man who had hurt him and even worse, the man who had hurt his friend. Bucky had been hurt once before by Hydra, and hurt once again by Perseus. But in reply Steve had beaten down Hydra, and he wasn't about to let Perseus go unpunished either. Steve wasn't about to let him live to hurt his friend again.

So Steve decided on a next step.

_Step three: Find Bucky Barnes._

* * *

While Steve's enthusiasm was all well and good, it didn't do much to help him in the long run. Sure, it drove his feet onward where he would rather have fallen to his knees in pain. Sure, it kept his mind focused where he would have rather passed out cold on the concrete. But it didn't help him find a warm set of clothing, or hide from curious eyes. He decided his best hope was to find either a thrift shop that would be willing to simply give him a set of clothes, or steal some from God-knew where. Always preferring to do things the legal way, Steve began to search for a donation shop. The only thing was, he would have to walk out on the streets to find one, but he decided it was worth the risk. When he thought about it, he didn't really have a choice.

Steve poked his head out of the alley. The sun was well on it's way now, and the light was bright and golden. Now the streets were filled with people. Heading off to work or school and basically carrying on as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Acting as normal as he could, which was not very normal considering his appearance, he strode quickly through the throng. Occasionally Steve was too hasty and would jostle someone with his bad shoulder. Biting down the pain, he would apologize before quickly moving on.

People did not stare at him, but from the way they awkwardly averted their eyes he knew they saw him. One benefit to this was that, since no one looked too closely, no one recognized him as the famous Captain America, and he moved through the crowd with relative ease.

But finally his luck ran out. Before he had found even the slightest hint of a shop, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck. The hairs on his arms rose despite his dampness, and he felt something stirring within him. A warning.

Someone was watching him.

Casually, Steve stopped to look in at a shop window. Without turning his head, he moved his eyes to peer back the way he had come. Sure enough, five men dressed in tailored grey suites followed behind him. The men, who had been focused on moving through the crowd before, suddenly stopped, shuffling and speaking amongst themselves as the crowd separated to move passed, like water around a river-stone.

He swore under his breath and turned, merging once again with the foot traffic. He walked along until he came to an intersection and waited until the very last moment before crossing the street. With luck, the men would get trapped behind a stream of heavy traffic and buy him some time.

Once he crossed the street, he broke into a jog and quickly crossed another, just missing a car as it whizzed around the corner at high speed. The driver honked angrily and Steve raised his hand in apology. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men pick up their pace. Steve saw a few of them reach into their pockets, probably for the handles of their pistols. Soon, the five men were flat-out running and Steve, his breath coming in great, painful gasps, ran as well.

He raced down the street, dodging around some people and pushing others out of the way as he desperately searched for a place to hide. He couldn't go back to Daltex. Not yet and not ever. If they caught him, he would never manage to get this far again. If they caught him, he was done for. So he ran. His arm jostled painfully and the concrete tore at his bare feet but he could not stop. People let out startled cries as he darted by, but slowly, surely, the men behind him started to catch up. Steve was injured, tired, cold, and weak while those men were fresh and surely Perseus' best.

Suddenly, Steve felt someone grab his collar and drag him sideways into an alley. His momentum sent him crashing to the ground, and he muffled a hoarse yell as he landed once more on his injured shoulder.

Whoever it was still had his shirt, and was using it to drag him quickly out of sight of the street, finally propping him up against a couple of cardboard boxes. Steve fell back against them, gripping his right arm and closing his eyes tightly against the red and yellow stars that threatened to overtake his vision. His ears rang loudly, clamoring in his head like a tornado siren. Then the worst of the pain passed and his eyes and ears cleared, and he saw who it was that had grabbed him.

Steve thought for a moment that the men had caught up to him quicker than he had expected, but no. The man that squatted before him definitely was not one of Perseus' goons. The man was tall and thin, with tangled white hair that joined seamlessly with his matching beard to form a cloud around his head. He wore a dirty yellow sweater and a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better days.

The man peered out into the street, and positioned himself to block Steve from casual view. Steve watched in awe as the five men ran right by the alley without even looking his way. The oldster looked down on Steve with eyes that shone in the bright light. The alley itself was dark, but the golden sun shone just outside and made his eyes twinkle as if with a light of their own.

The oldster stuck out his right hand to shake, but exchanged it quickly for his left when he noticed Steve's injured arm. Steve reached out and gripped the man's hand in a shake. He was surprised when the man pulled him to his feet with apparent ease. He nearly toppled forward, but the old man caught and steadied him before he could go over completely.

"Steve Rogers, ent' it?" Said the old man, his breath whistling through gaps left by missing teeth. "You look a lot different than you do on television."

Steve wheezed, trying to catch his breath. When he finally had breath, he said, "Thank you. Those guys, they were-"

"Following you. So I saw. I suppose it's to be expected, you being a hero and all. There's always someone who wants to tramp you down, eh?" Still gripping Steve's left hand, the old man shook it warmly. "I'm Stewart McMillan. Good to meet you."

"And you," Steve said, "Do you know the nearest place I could get some clothes? I don't have any money, so maybe a-"

"Come with me, son," McMillan said. He turned, gripping tightly onto a shopping cart laden with black plastic bags, and headed off deeper into the alley. McMillan continued talking, as if he expected Steve to follow him without question. Which Steve did. "I saw that New York fiasco while I was in the soup kitchen. I'd have to be, oh, almost a year ago now?" McMillan heaved a relieved sigh, "That was _quite the thing_, eh? That iron guy got all the TV time, but he's too high-techno for me, if you understand. He's got that suit with all those gadgets and gizmos and stuff. But you, you I like. Here you are, fighting the baddies without even a pair of shoes. Mercy me. If that's not tough, I don't know what is."

Steve followed McMillan through a maze of alleyways, twisting and turning until Steve was sure he would never again see the sunlight. Then, as McMillan exclaimed, 'here we are!' they came out into a wide courtyard. The red brick walls were lined with little shacks made up of anything the owners could find. Sheets of plastic, plywood, cardboard and even old car tires. There were at least a dozen of these little houses, and twice that many people huddled around two or three barrel-fires, their breath steaming in the cold air.

"Hey, guys!" McMillan cried, "Look who I found! Of all the people in the world, look who I found outside our door!"

"Who is it?" Shouted one of the women, who stood warming her hands by the fire. She was swathed in torn scarves and sweaters, and like McMillan her hair was a shocking white halo. "You didn't bring one of those missionary people around again, did you? I told you last time that I don't want none of their pity. I'm a McMillan, dognabbit."

"Heavens to betsy, Margaret, you blind old bat! It ain't no missionary. By God, take a look!"

"You said it yourself, Stew! _I am blind_. No need to rub it in! So make yourself useful and tell me!" The old woman, Margaret, shrieked back. There was chuckling all around as the old couple bickered.

"It's_ Captain America_, you old fool," McMillan said, pride in his voice. "It's Steve Rogers!"

* * *

**Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing! ^^**

**I had to stop the chapter a bit early, since it was getting so freaking long. Hope ya'll enjoyed!  
**


	13. Every Dollar, Every Penny

Around him, the homeless of Salt Lake City hummed and buzzed with excitement. Before he could say a word, he was ushered closer to the fire. The smoke was black oily and smelled of plastic, but the fire was warm and Steve felt the last of the damp fleeing from his bones.

"By God,_ it really is him_!" Said one man. He was surprisingly young for being homeless. He couldn't have been more than twenty. Steve wondered what could drive a boy to such desperate circumstances. He had since learned that unemployment was a serious problem for the modern day United States, and Steve couldn't help but wonder at that. It had been a problem back in his day, too. Unemployment would always be a problem, but this boy was young and fit in his prime. Yet here he was, huddling around a barrel fire with the old and the insane and the drunks.

"He's a lot more handsome in person," said one elderly woman with a scandalous chortle.

"Don't say things like that," McMillan cried in amusement, "You don't want to scare him off now, do you?"

"God bless Captain America," said another man, taking off his knit-cap and clutching it in one gnarled hand. "My father was part of the 73rd infantry. You saved his life, Captain. God bless you sir, God bless you." And the old man took Steve's hand in his own and shook it vigorously.

The shock from Steve's chase was wearing off and the adrenaline that had been fueling his strength since his fall was fading away. The pain from his injured arm was beginning to resurface, and flared into such brilliance as the man shook his hand that Steve cried out and pulled back, cradling his arm close to his chest.

"Cap?" McMillan said, stepping forward hastily and putting a hand on Steve's shoulder, "Rogers? What's wrong? _Blast it_, step back all of you! Give him some air! Rogers, are you hurt?"

Steve straightened, still pressing his arm close to his chest. "Just my arm. Please, do any of you have a phone I could borrow? I have a call I really need to make."

McMillan looked at Steve closely, then raised his head to address the crowd, "Anyone got a phone? Anyone?"

Silence.

"Alright." Turning to Steve once more, he said, "I'll take care of that. Don't you worry. Margaret, can you do something about his arm?"

"It's okay, really," Steve said, putting up his good hand as if to ward off the tiny old woman who approached him with a look of fierce determination in her blind, milky eyes. "It's-"

He broke off as Margaret gently pried his wounded arm free of his chest. He was surprised by the strength the little woman had in her bony arms, and reluctantly gave in to her ministrations. He bit his tongue and looked up at the sky as Margaret felt along his arm with cold fingers. They bit down, pinching here and there as they searched for the break. Her fingers made their way up his forearm until the reached a spot about two inches below Steve's elbow joint. This time when Margaret's claws pinched down he let out a hiss and grit his teeth.

Margaret released Steve's arm and nodded, "I can fix this," she said, "But not with all of you hanging on his coat sleeves." She gestured Steve in the direction of a shack began walking towards it, as if she expected him to follow her without complaint. Which he did. "Go make yourselves useful!" She cried before ducking into the small, dark interior.

The shack itself was made of metal and wooden sheeting, plastic bags, newspapers, tarps, garbage can lids. Anything that could be found on the streets had been used in it's construction. Steve crouched and followed Margaret inside. The door was narrow, and his wide shoulders barely fit.

Once inside, Margaret ordered him to sit on a cardboard sheet, which took the place of a chair. She sat on a similar sheet next to him and began rummaging through her store of black trash bags, searching for something or other.

"They love you, you know," the old woman said suddenly. "They look up to you. The people."

Steve wasn't sure what to say to that. He knew that people loved him. Looked up to him. They followed him blindly to war even though they understood their chances of following him home were slim. And for the life of him, Steve couldn't understand why.

Margaret disentangled herself from the bag and held up an undecipherable wad of something with victory. She spread out the supplies neatly, but in the darkness Steve was hard-pressed to make out what they were.

"You do not think you deserve that trust," Margaret said, "Why?"

Steve was taken aback. The woman spoke as if she had pulled his thoughts straight out of his brain. He wet his dry lips then said, "I was out on a mission, but I failed. I couldn't save. . . I couldn't save my friend."

As Steve spoke, Margaret once again took his wounded arm in her cold hands, feeling the tender area around the break.

"I've let him down twice now. Because of that, he's sick, or traumatized or brain dead and I_ let it happen_!"

With a sudden crack and a pain like fire, Margaret shifted the bones in his arm. She moved them quickly and there was the sound of bone grating against bone as she forcefully dragged the two splintered ends into place. Steve let out a groan, but didn't withdraw his arm from her grasp.

When Margaret spoke again, she sounded angry. "Steve, do you know why Stewart asked me to tape you back together?" Before Steve could say anything she went on, "It's because I was a doctor in World War II."

Steve gaped. If this were true, the woman was far older than she appeared.

"I saved almost every life that came into my hospital. _Almost._ I worked my hardest, drove the nurses to their limits, and we did everything we could for every wounded soldier, but they died anyway. Steve," Margaret put a hand to the side of Steve's face, feeling his grim expression. "if I learned anything during the war, I learned this. You can't save everybody."

She sighed and drew her cold hand away from Steve's cheek and went about her work with deft fingers. "Even you. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to save everyone who depends on you. But, as long as you try your hardest to save everyone you can, you can't blame yourself for the ones who are lost."

Steve was silent for a long time, staring at Margaret's hands without really seeing them.

_You will not be able to save everybody. But as long as you try your hardest to save everyone you can, you can't blame yourself for the ones who are lost._

The words echoed through Steve's mind, repeating over and over like a mantra, and he was comforted. He _had_ tried his best. He _had_ done everything he could do to save Bucky, even if everything he could do was not enough. He shook away his thoughts as if shaking away raindrops. He couldn't think about this now. If everything went well, Bucky would be in Natasha's care. If things had gone awry . . . Well. Then he would do everything he could do once again to find his friend and save him.

Margaret drew the bandages tight with a crisp snap and fastened the edge with a paperclip stuck through the layers of fabric. Steve roused himself and looked down at her handiwork. His arm had been splinted with two long, straight rods of metal before being bound tightly with relatively clean strips of cloth. It still ached, but the pain felt healthy. Proper. The bones had been aligned and could now heal.

"Thank you," Steve said and got to his feet. "For everything."

Steve was not simply thanking her for splinting his arm, but for her words as well. They had steadied him, in the same way his broken arm had been steadied. The pain of letting Bucky down was still there, but it was no longer the heavy, guilty anguish that had burned away in the back of his mind since his friend's reappearance. No. It was the healthy pain of a cleansed wound. The pain of healing.

Margaret said nothing, but nodded to him through the darkness.

Steve crawled out into the comparatively bright courtyard. He huddled next to the fire, warming his hands. He appreciated the warmth, now that his arm wasn't throbbing and sitting down had relieved some of his light-headed weariness.

"Feeling better?" Asked McMillan as he strode briskly into the courtyard from the alley.

"Much, thanks to you and Margaret," Steve replied.

"Well, prepare to feel even better." McMillan went to Steve's side and put a plastic bag in his hand.

"What's this?" Steve asked, surprised. From the bag he pulled a plastic box. His mouth fell open. Inside the box was a prepaid cellphone. Steve looked at it with joy. Relief. With it, he could call Natasha. It was his ticket to safety and, he suddenly realized, it must have cost McMillan every penny he had. "McMillan-" Steve began to say.

"Don't thank me. It's from all of us."

Steve looked around at all the faces. All the homeless, the aged, the unfortunate who could barely afford to feed themselves, let alone buy something as expensive as a prepaid cellphone.

McMillan shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed for the first time since Steve had met him. "We figured you'd done a lot for us. For all of us. It was about time we payed you back."

Steve felt his eyes prickle. "Thank you. All of you," he finally said, and he looked down at the common everyday appliance that had suddenly become so precious.

Now all he had to do was make sure that Bucky was alright.

Now all he had to do was make a phone call.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!  
**

**I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I've been busy traveling and, to tell the truth, I lost my writing inspiration for awhile there. But all of your kind reviews got me going again, so thank you to all you awesome people! Your reviews are honestly the only things that keep me writing! **


	14. Risks

"I'll send a jet, okay? We've got a few operatives in the area, they'll pick you up. Just stay where you are," Natasha said over the phone. "They're probably still after you, whoever they are. God, Steve, just don't move until they get there."

"Okay, yeah. I won't," Steve agreed over the line. "And Natasha," he added softly, "Thanks."

The relief and gratitude in Steve's voice was heavy and almost enough to make Natasha weep. His voice was hoarse and it faded out at the end of each sentence, as if Steve was beyond exhausted and only adrenaline and shock was keeping him on his feet. Natasha's heart had leapt and twisted as she had listened to Steve's story. He hadn't even told her everything, only the spare details necessary about his escape and his chase. But he had hinted at worse, darker details that would have to wait until he was out of harms way to reveal.

By God, Natasha was going to bust some Daltex heads.

"Yeah, of course Steve. Stay safe," she said, and hung up.

Natasha could feel two sets of eyes burning holes in her back. One set belonged to Bruce Banner and the other belonged to Bucky Barnes as he watched her with what could only be described as hungry curiosity. The look on his face as she had spoken to Steve had been one of mild confusion, as if he had forgotten something. But as the call had gone on his eyes had grown wider and wider, soaking up every detail, every word.

She refused to look back and meet Bucky's eyes. She knew he would have questions, but she had more important business to attend to first.

Punching more numbers onto the phone's touchscreen, she held the speaker to her ear and began to bark orders to the operative on the other line. She gave the operative, Lewis Bernstein, Steve's location and orders to pick him up with an armed guard. She told Bernstein to then stick Steve on the first jet back to Chicago and to not let the big man from his sight.

Bernstein absorbed all of this information with a curt, "_Yes, m'am_,", and went to carry them out.

Natasha stood for a moment, eyes closed and the phone pressed tightly against her breast. Her breathing for a moment was ragged and her knees were weak and trembling with relief. Steve had been found. He had been found, and he was alright and he would be with her soon. Safe. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, but the pure joy of the last few moments still washed over her in bone-wracking waves.

"_Steve Rogers,_" Bucky murmured in a voice that barely topped a whisper. "_Steve. Steve. Steve._"

Natasha turned around and looked at Bucky, who had buried his face in his hands. The words flowed from his mouth as if he were trying them out. As if he were seeing how the name rolled off his tongue, or tossing it around in his mind in an effort to recall something forgotten.

"So he's safe?" Bruce asked in his permanently glum tone.

Natasha nodded, a smile coming unbidden to her lips. "He'll be back tonight. He said something about his arm though, so would you mind sticking around to take a look at it?"

Bruce shrugged and got to his feet, "I wasn't planning on going anywhere anyway."

Bucky hadn't stirred from his hunched position, so Natasha turned the doorknob and walked out into the hall. Maria and Clint were outside and they greeted her with questioning looks as Bruce followed her out and closed the door quietly behind them both.

"Well?" Clinton asked once the door was firmly closed.

"Nothing from Bucky, but Steve dropped me a line."

Clinton exploded at this information, running his hands through his short hair and giving her an earnest, lopsided smile, "What? He's okay?"

Natasha nodded, and both he and Maria laughed with relief.

"Oh, my God," Maria said when the wave of emotion had passed, "_My God_, am I glad to hear that."

"He'll fill us in completely when he gets here tonight," Natasha said and headed for the stairs. "But nothing from Bucky. I guess that doesn't matter anymore, though."

Banner shook his head, "Natasha, it does matter. He has something to say. He knows something."

Natasha looked back at Banner, "Why do you say that?"

"Because of his eyes."

"Wait, what's wrong with his eyes?" Maria said. "The scan revealed no permanent damage. Nothing."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and went to the break room, where Clint busied himself making coffee.

Banner took a seat in one of the plastic chairs and traced the knots in the wood of the table. "His eyes showed signs of queer dilation, but I thought nothing of it because a screwed up pupillary response is a sign of physiological or psychological trauma, which Bucky has very obviously sustained." Banner accepted a cup of coffee from Clint, and sipped it before going on. "If you remember, Bucky then complained about Hydra '_doing something to his eyes_'. In which case, the mydriasis may have been caused by cycloplegia, but I thought it was more likely that the dilation was simply caused by phenylephrine or even just tropicamide."

Clinton waved his coffee mug in the air, "_Whoa_, Doctor. Pretend that I'm an idiot and say that again, would you?"

Banner sighed, but sipped his coffee as if his supply of patience was limitless. "Tropicamide is a mydriatic. It's a drug used by eye doctors to dilate the pupil so they can examine the retina, inside the eye. My first thought was that Hydra had dilated Bucky's pupil to examine his retina or perhaps for surgical purposes."

"_But..._" Natasha said, sensing Banner had more to say.

"_But_ then I thought of something else. I'll have to do some research before I can say for sure."

"You can't tell us now?" Clint asked.

Banner shook his head, "No. I need to be quite sure before I go running my mouth."

Natasha got to her feet, "Alright, Doc. Let us know as soon as you learn anything."

Bruce Banner gave a sarcastic half-bow from his seat, "Yes, m'am. In the meantime, I would suggest that you keep Bucky from seeing Steve, once he arrives."

"Why?" Maria Hill asked, "Do you think Bucky's still unstable?"

Banner chuckled gently, "Yes, Ms. Hill, I think he's still unstable. You've seen how certain things, certain events cause residual memories to surface. From what you've told me, the last time that happened he had a fit. There's no way to tell how he might react."

"He could hurt himself, or even Steve," Natasha muttered, seeing Banner's point. It hadn't been so long ago when Bucky had tried to murder Steve and it hadn't been so long ago when Bucky had shot her. She unconsciously rubbed her shoulder where the bullet had passed through. Nothing remained of the wound except a scar and the occasional twinge. In fact, it lined up neatly with the other scar Bucky had given her.

Now that she thought about it, Bucky had shot her more times than anyone else ever had. And yet there he was, sitting upstairs as if the two of them were best pals. No. It was unfair to judge Bucky on what he had done. He had been under Hydra's influence, and Natasha didn't believe that even she could have done better in his circumstances. Plus, she owed it to Steve to take care of his friend.

"Right," she said, shaking herself from her reverie. "We'll keep them separate until we can assure Bucky's stability and be sure that he won't go for Steve's throat. Don't even tell Steve that he's here, it's best that way."

Everyone around the small table nodded their heads in agreement. Natasha knew that Steve would be desperate for news of Bucky Barnes, but it was a dangerous business they were dealing with. Old hazards had only been exchanged for new ones. Rescuing Steve from Hydra had posed all sorts of risks, but only those of the physical variety. The new dilemma they faced brought on risks of a whole new kind. Natasha knew that Steve had a soft spot for Bucky; a soft spot that went right to his heart. Bucky now had the ability to strike Steve a blow that could cripple him. A blow that could scar him for life. A blow that could _break him_.

But Bucky also had the ability to give Steve something else entirely that would give Steve the strength he needed to fight on, to take down Hydra yet again, even after everything that had happened.

_His friendship._

But could Bucky offer Steve his friendship after seventy years? Could they still be friends after all they had both been through?

Natasha didn't allow herself the hope.

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**Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing! I'm sorry this is such a short chapter. I'll do my best to make the next one good and lengthy! **


	15. Rewards

Within two hours, Steve and his homeless companions had been approached by a man and a woman, both dressed in tailored black suits with sunglasses and smiles. Steve had been wary at first, remembering the suited men that had chased him earlier, but the two quickly introduced themselves as Lewis Bernstein and Emilia Pierce, agents of SHIELD.

"I can never thank you enough," Steve said, turning to McMillan.

He shook his head and chuckled, "Oh, you've done plenty, Cap. Don't worry about it. Just give us a thought every now and then, eh?" McMillan took Steve's good hand and shook it warmly. "If you're ever in town, drop by!"

Steve nodded and, thinking for a moment, took the prepaid phone out his pocket. He handed it back to McMillan. "And if you ever need anything at all, you call me."

McMillan took the phone, passing it between his dirty hands with a gentle grin. "I'll keep that in mind."

And with that, Steve followed the two agents out of the concrete courtyard and into the bright day-lit streets beyond.

Steve couldn't help but be slightly nervous as he left the shelter of the alley, but he didn't have to worry long. A black car with tinted windows waited on the curb, and the two agents ushered him inside. Lewis sat upfront next to the driver, who proved to be a big burly man named Johnny, and the woman Emilia Pierce slid in next to Steve in the back.

The car seat was plush and leather, and Steve lay his head back in exhaustion. He was comfortable, and the interior of the car was dim and warm and he dosed fitfully until the car pulled to a stop twenty minutes later.

He was bundled out of the car onto a wide strip of concrete, marked with flags and lights and orange paint. It was an airport, Steve saw. The cool wind whipped his clothes about him, the fabric snapping and cracking in the air. The two agents seemed relieved that they had made it to the airport safely, and Steve wondered if they had been expecting an attack. Either way, Steve was too exhausted to care. His arm was throbbing, and he could feel the beat of his heart in his teeth and gums. His eyes ached. His back was beginning to hurt again, too, and he was more fatigued than he had ever been. All in all, he felt like crap.

The jet was small, only meant to sit ten or twelve people. It's engine was already roaring and the heat from the turbines made the air around them blur and distort. Steve climbed up the stairs, ducking to enter the low door. Inside, the floor was strewn with soft cream carpet and the walls were covered in dark, glossy bead-board. The chairs were leather and Steve sank into one gratefully.

"Are you hungry, Captain?" Asked Emilia Pierce as she settled herself in one of the other fist class seats. Bernstein had stepped through the small door towards the forward of the plane and seemed to be speaking with the pilot.

To be honest, Steve hadn't thought about his hunger since he had been captured who-knew how long ago. He didn't remember ever feeling hungry during his stay with Daltex. But now, at the mention of food, his stomach clenched and growled tellingly.

"Yeah," Steve said with an apologetic grin, "Yeah, I am."

Emilia stood and walked past Steve, "There's a kitchen in the back. I'll see what I can find you."

To be honest, Emilia wasn't sure what Steve Rogers ate. Did he eat normal food or some superhuman-vitamin-calorie-ultra-bar? Well, she wasn't sure they had any of those on the plane anyway, so she decided give him whatever she could find. He probably ate a lot, at any rate. She poked through the mini-fridge in the back of the plane and managed to find several sandwiches, apple juice and a salad, but when she returned with the food Steve was already fast asleep.

* * *

Natasha stepped on the gas, rocketing through a streetlight just as it turned red. The nighttime Chicago traffic wasn't bad and Natasha flew through the streets with such speed it would make police officers weep. But she didn't care. The jet was due to arrive any minute and, by God, she was going to be there when it touched the ground. Emilia Pierce had called her earlier stating that they had had no trouble whatsoever extracting Steve. That made her slightly nervous. Surely Hydra wouldn't let Steve go without at least a little fight but, sure enough, Steve had made it to the air safe and sound.

She waved her pass at the airport gate and sped through onto the runway beyond. The long concrete drive was lit with evenly placed lights that flashed and glowed in the darkness. She pulled over and shut off the car's engine, stepping out into the cool night. She could hear crickets chirping in the tufts of grass that manage to poke through the runway's tough stone surface. The air was cool on her skin, so she closed her eyes. She let calm flow through her, soothing her tattered nerves. But soon enough she heard jet engines, and it grew louder until even the crickets were drowned out.

She craned her neck and, sure enough, there it was. The blinking light that was the jet approached, circled, then after several minutes it descended, touching the ground with a slight bump. The engines screamed and the metal flaps waved as the plane slowed itself, finally coming to a stop fifty feet from where Natasha stood. Her heart pounded and air caught in her throat as her soothed nerves flared up once again.

Slowly the steps lowered and then there he was. There was Steve, ducking under the low doorway. The wind tore at his clothes and hair, but Natasha didn't stop to take in any more details. She began to walk and then run when her emotions finally got the best of her. Natasha threw herself into him, wrapping her arms around Steve's neck and pulling him close.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, "_Oh, my God,_ Steve!"

Steve held her tightly, but Natasha noticed how he held one arm carefully away from her. But for Steve, all of his pains were forgotten, his weariness expelled. He was home again.

"Natasha," he said, his voice hoarse and soft. Natasha could barely hear him over the roaring of the jet's engine. "Boy, am I happy to see you."

Natasha pulled away, keeping a hand on his shoulder. She smiled and said, "I'm glad your safe, Rogers." And she truly was. Relief and joy was washing through her, making her feel giddy and weak and, if the look on Steve's face was any tell, he felt the exact same way.

Natasha shouted back to Lewis Bernstein and Emilia Pierce who stood at the jet's door, but Steve wasn't, or perhaps couldn't, pay attention. He had slept on the plane and that had revived him somewhat, but the shock and joy of seeing Natasha again was quickly wearing off and his arm was _really_ beginning to hurt again.

Steve saw the door to the jet close and watched as it turn and began to sped once more down the runway. Before he could see it take off, Natasha took his elbow and led him slowly towards the black sedan.

Once back in the familiar comfort of the car with the familiar discomfort of Natasha at the wheel, Steve said, "Natasha, I didn't tell you this over the phone, but this company Daltex-"

"Steve," Natasha interrupted, "It can wait until we get back to HQ. You're sick, you're tired, and I want Bruce to take a look at that arm."

"Wasn't Bruce in Cairo? What is he doing here?"

Natasha shrugged, putting on her best poker face, "He said he wanted a vacation, I suggested Chicago."

Steve shook and said with a chuckle, "Alright. Well, I think he's crazy for wanting to come _here_ of all places." He looked out the window, taking in the nighttime cityscape. The sky-scrapers were dotted with lights, telling of business men and women who were typing up a final report, or putting away the last of their paperwork before closing shop and heading home to their families.

Steve talked big but in all honesty he had grown to love Chicago. Only his forced absence had made him realize it.

They spoke quietly of little things. How Clinton and Maria were getting on, how the staff was doing. Natasha told him that everything had gone on as usual, except for Steve's disappearance. Though Steve didn't let it show, he was dying for news of Bucky. But he respected Natasha's wishes and kept quiet.

Finally, Natasha pulled into the parking garage and Steve heaved himself out of the car, holding his arm close to his chest to avoid jostling it. He heard Natasha's door slam, and together they shuffled into SHIELD headquarters.

At the door he was met by Banner, who looked as if he were just about to head out to meet them. "Captain America. It's good to see that the American icon lives still." He clapped Steve on the shoulder. When the tall man winced, Banner pulled back and rubbed his chin. "Though it looks like the American icon is damaged somewhat. Come on back. Ms. Romanoff here gave me my own office."

Steve and Natasha followed Banner down the hall, "She gave you an office? I thought you were on vacation."

Banner looked back, his mouth opened to speak. The words died in his mouth as Natasha gave him a meaningful look, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I brought some samples back from Cairo that needed monitoring and I couldn't bare to leave them behind. Ah, here we go."

He opened a door and stepped aside, letting Steve and Natasha through before entering himself and closing it behind him. Steve found himself in what appeared to be an examination room. A medical table sat in the middle, surrounded by lights and tubes and trays and all sorts of odd medical equipment that made Steve flinch with bad memories. Cupboards and counters lined the sterile white walls.

Banner went to one of the counters and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. In his permanently sarcastic voice, he said, "I hate to ask this of you Cap, but if you would peel off that shirt of yours I'd be much obliged."

"I'm sure you would," Natasha said with a chuckle.

Steve ignored her and sat down on the medical table. He pulled his shirt over his head, having some difficulties with his broken arm, and tossed the bedraggled thing aside. It had finally dried, but it was still dirty, torn and stained with blood. The air was cold on his bare chest and goosebumps rose over his arms. The damp had long since left him, but he had never really warmed through. The chill of the shadowy alley clung to his bones, and there was nothing Steve wanted more than hot food and a hot shower.

Banner stepped forward, focusing on his arm. "What happened?" He asked, slowly lifting Steve's forearm to examine the rudimentary splinting.

"I fell off a building," Steve said dryly. When Natasha gave him a horrified look, he added, "I'll tell later."

Banner grabbed a pair of scissors and began to snip away at the dirty wrappings, "This splinting isn't bad, but it's looks like an infection waiting to happen."

Steve couldn't argue. The bandages had been the cleanest available to Margaret, but to honest that hadn't been all too clean.

He watched as Bruce cut away the rest of the cloth, gently supporting Steve's wrist with one hand as he tossed away the metal rods. They clinked and clattered over the tile floor. Banner quickly wrapped Steve's arm with something similar to bubble-wrap before layering it again with a damp, blue material. It dried quickly, hardening into a cast that supported Steve's wrist and arm and efficiently splinted the bones.

Steve looked at the cast with dull awe. He had never seen anything like it. Back in his day, paper-mache casts had been the only thing available. As Steve examined the blue cast, Bruce moved around behind him and began to examine his back.

"Natasha, look at this," he said.

Natasha walked over to Banner's side, peering at Steve's skin. On Steve's lower back, just above his waistline there were two bright red dots about the thickness of a pencil. They were deep and scabbed, indented like craters and the skin around them was hot and red. Right before her eyes was the evidence of Steve's bone marrow '_donation_'. He had undergone the same process as Bucky.

Banner did all he could for the twin wounds, spraying on some antibiotic and covering them both with band-aids. All he could then was wait and see if the got infected. It would be bad news if they did.

"I'm going to give you some painkillers," Banner said, after giving Steve a relatively clean bill of health. "That arm has to hurt, not to mention your back."

Steve said nothing, taking the pills Banner handed him and swallowing them down without water and without complaint.

"You should probably take those with food," Banner advised.

Natasha nodded, "That's a good idea."

Ten minutes of whirling activity later, Steve found himself in clean clothes, sitting in the break room with a bowl of tomato soup and two or three grilled cheese sandwiches on a plate in front of them. He sat, scarfing them down as if he hadn't eaten in days, which he hadn't. They tasted fantastic, like cheap cheese and grease and carbon where the crust had burned. He couldn't help but be nostalgically, woefully reminded of the grilled cheese sandwiches his mother used to make him many, many years ago.

The painkillers began to work their magic, and the dull pain in his arm and back fled before the wave of strong medicine. For Steve it was a relief. The painlessness in combination with the warm food and clean clothes helped him begin to relax, and he felt better than he had in a long time.

Natasha sat opposite him, leaning back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest. She said nothing as Steve ate, but as he began to slow down she said, "What happened to you, Steve?"

Steve looked up at her and set his spoon aside. He dusted the crumbs off of his hands, and began his story. He told her of the phone call, of the mysterious man named Perseus who bargained for Bucky's life. Steve told her how he had agreed to the terms and gone to Nebraska under the pretense of taking care of a Hydra missile silo, then gone to meet Perseus in person. He had been captured, and he explained in as much detail as he could the treatments and procedures he had undergone. Then he had escaped. When he told Natasha how he had jumped from the Daltex window, she put a hand to her mouth in shock. He finished is tale by telling her of the chase, and the kind, homeless McMillan.

"I want to send some money to them, Natasha," he said, "I need to repay them for that phone and their kindness."

"Sure thing, Steve," Natasha said distractedly. Perseus. That was the name she had been looking for all along. Whatever was going on here, he was undoubtedly the man in charge. She would have to find some way to get her hands on him, perhaps she could launch a raid-

"Natasha," Steve broke through her thoughts, "Natasha did you hear me?"

She shook her head, "What?"

Steve leaned forward, his food forgotten, "I said, did Bucky make it here?"

Natasha looked at him, unsure what to say. "No," she said finally, "No, Steve. I'm sorry."

But it was too late. Natasha Romanoff had been caught off guard, and Steve had seen it.

Chair legs scraped against the floor as he straightened to his full height. Steve towered over her, looking every one of his six-foot four-inches and Natasha had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. Cast or not, he was intimidating.

"Natasha, _did Bucky make it_?"

"No, Steve," Natasha repeated. "I'm sorry. We'll send out a search party tonight to find him. Sit down."

Steve's breath was coming ragged, and his heart was twisting in his chest. He could see it in her face. Natasha was lying to him, but why?

He stepped forward as his chest was filled with an unholy rage. He gripped Natasha by the collar and pulled her to her feet, "Natasha, where is he?"

"Steve, let me go. You're hurting me."

"Tell me where he is."

"Steve-"

He pushed her roughly against the wall. It was easy, she was so tiny, but if looks could kill Steve would have been a dead man. But he was not about to let her go. He had been through so much. So much pain, so much agony, just to save Bucky Barnes. He hadn't let anything stop him before, and he was not going to let Natasha be the only obstacle between him and his best friend. Not after all that.

"Tell me!" Steve shouted, "Natasha, _where is he_?"

The fire in Steve's eyes was frightening, but it was more than that. Natasha saw that he was driven by more than just a need to see his long-lost friend. He was driven by a need to see that Bucky was alright. Could it be that Steve felt some kind of guilt? Some kind of responsibility for Bucky's fate?

"He's not stable!" She heard herself saying, "Steve, he's not healthy, he could kill you!"

"I don't care," Steve said, the anger falling away from his voice. He released is grip on her clothes and stepped back. Natasha stayed where she was, breathing heavily and looking at Steve as if he was a wild animal that would bite her at any moment. "I don't care. Natasha, please. Where is he?"

"Steve..." She said softly, once again unsure of what to say.

The door to the break room creaked as it swung slowly open. Both Natasha and Steve turned to see who it was.

Steve's heart leapt, twisted and soared as if it wanted to beat it's way from his chest.

For there in the doorway stood James Buchanan Barnes.

* * *

**Alright guys, here's that super long chapter I promised! I hope you guys enjoyed it!  
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**Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing!**


	16. To Hell and Back

There he was.

His brown hair had grown since last Steve had seen him, and it was tied back in a loose tail down his back. His skin was perhaps a bit paler, the skin around his eyes darker. But the eyes themselves were still the same sky blue they had always been. Time stretched like putty and Steve looked at Bucky, his breathing erratic and uneven. His friend was skinnier than he had been, but his shoulders were no less broad and he still as stood tall and as proud as ever.

Then Steve felt that everything up to that point had been worth it. Every struggle, every trial he had faced. The silo, Daltex, Perseus, everything had been worth it to save his friend. His assurance was bolstered at the sight of Bucky, and his heart swelled until he thought it would burst. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. His friend, through the best and worst of times.

And there Bucky was, right in front of him.

There was nothing Steve wanted to do more than run up to Bucky, to take his shoulders and embrace him and slap him on the back. He wanted to shout and sing and greet Bucky as if not a day had gone by. He wanted to have a drink with him, to sit and chat about girls and stupidity of the rest of the world and how strange things had become. Just him and Buck, like in the good old days.

_The old days._

And then he realized that that was all he wanted, and his heart throbbed with an ache that no painkiller could hope to suppress. Steve wanted things to back to the way they had been. He longed for a world now long gone, and for the friendship of a man who stood before him broken and forever changed.

But things were different now, and Steve knew that all the days he had lost would never return. But he did hold a hope. One, tiny spark of hope that Buck did remember him, and at least that small part of goodness would return to Steve's life.

Or perhaps it was as Natasha said. Perhaps Bucky was too unstable, perhaps Hydra had pushed his mind too far to ever be brought back. What they had done to Bucky had been terrible, Steve knew. He barely dared to hope that Bucky would, or could, remember him fondly.

So Steve stood his ground, wanting to go to Bucky's side but unsure how Bucky would react.

Bucky gripped the door frame with one strong, metal hand. The wood began to splinter under his fingers, but his face remained carefully blank. The time stretched on and on and Steve felt as though his heart was going to explode with the pressure of not knowing. Natasha was silent as the grave. She stood where Steve had left her, next to the wall with her arms hugging her body tightly.

Finally, unable to take it anymore, Steve took one slow step towards Bucky. "Bucky," he said softly, "Buck."

It was all he could manage to say. His mouth was dry and a lump was rising in his throat, cutting his speech short. Tears rose unbidden to his eyes and the world was obscured with their wet, shining film. But the tears did not fall.

Bucky looked at him, staring at the teary glaze in Steve's eyes and the beaming grin on his face. Something rose in Bucky's chest. Something. . . strange. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. He knew that somehow the feeling was connected to the tall man who stood before him, but. . . how? Memories began to trickle into the back of his mind, but it was only the barest of streams that brought no real clarity.

_Images of a cold cliff, the harsh chill of metal in his gloved hands and the wet cling of snow on his face._

_'Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?'_

_'Yeah, and I threw up?'_

_'This isn't payback, is it?'_

_'Now why would I do that?'_

Bucky flinched as the memory was yanked away only to be replaced with another.

_The jerking, bucking, heaving airship beneath him, Steve's collar in his fist and the sound of shattering glass all around him._

_'Then finish it, 'cuz I'm with you till the end of the line.'_

_I'm with you till the end of the line._

_The end of the line._

Bucky stepped forward and before Steve could do more than brace himself, Bucky wrapped his arms around him.

"It's been a long time," Bucky said quietly, "It's been a long _God-damn_ time."

Steve raised his arms, pulling his friend close. He tried to speak, but words failed him. Finally, he managed to say, "It has. Jesus, Buck, I can't believe it."

Natasha couldn't help the slight grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Steve's eyes were filled with tears and he was beaming like a child on christmas. Bucky's eyes were narrow, slitted, but a smile was pulling on his lips as well. She was inordinately pleased that Bucky hadn't tried to kill Steve. That would have been a blow Natasha didn't think Steve would have been able to recover from.

After a long moment, Steve pulled back. He kept his hands on Bucky's shoulders and looking into his friends face. With some distant corner of his brain, he saw that Bucky's pupils were strangely large, but Steve couldn't have cared less. Bucky's vague smile was enough to swamp Steve with happiness.

"You remember?" He asked.

Bucky looked down at his feet, nodding, "Some. Not everything. . . But some."

"That's enough for me. That's more than enough. Bucky," Steve's words were interrupted by a laugh that bubbled from his mouth unbidden, "I'm glad you're okay."

As Bucky looked up once again, Steve saw for the first time that something wasn't quite right. He looked haggard. Weary. But Bucky was alive and, above all, Bucky remembered him. Steve's mind raced. Things could go back to normal. With Bucky on the mend, things could all go back to the way they were before he fell from the train and everything went wrong.

"What happened?" Steve finally asked, "How did you find Natasha?"

"_We_ found _him_, actually," Natasha said, settling herself once more in a chair. She gestured to the other chairs, and after a moment both Bucky and Steve slowly sat. "Do you remember any of that, Barnes?"

Bucky hesitated, but shook his head.

"Well, Maria found footage of your incident in Nebraska. We, Clinton and I, managed to find him about ten miles away from where you left him. You were. . .," she gave Bucky a sidelong glance, ". . . sick. Fever, hallucinations, the whole sha-bang. A doctor patched you up and we brought you back here."

"I remember that," Bucky said quietly.

Natasha nodded, "You seemed to be feeling better by then. Now, Steve, here's the thing. Bucky underwent the same experiments you did back in Daltex HQ."

Steve's eyes narrowed, "What?"

Natasha shrugged, "They took blood and tissue samples and, oddly enough, bone marrow samples. Just like you."

Steve looked at Bucky and swore quietly, "So they finished with you, then picked me up? But why? What the hell are they doing?"

"Daltex is a medicinal company. They produce over-the-counter-drugs, cold medicine, allergy suppressers, anything and everything."

"Why would a medicine company want-"

"Because Daltex is owned by Hydra."

"_What_?" Steve repeated in a whisper.

Natasha shook her head, "We know as much as you do. We talked to Vera Dominika, and she has admitted to subjecting Bucky to the tests. We haven't gotten anything else out of her."

"First the bombs and missile silos, now this." Steve shook his head, "What are they planning?"

"An age of aggression," Bucky muttered.

Then Steve's memory clicked and he remembered the words Perseus had uttered just before he had leapt from the window.

_"The future is at hand and, whether you want it or not, you are a part of it," the man had said, "I will bring about a new age. An age of justice and power. An age of aggression."_

With haste, Steve recounted Perseus' words to Natasha who scowled in response.

"A new age?" Natasha shook her head and rolled her eyes, "Dear God, _not again_. Not another crazy who intends on 'changing the world'."

Steve's chair creaked as he sat back, the plastic flexing and moving beneath him. The ache in his arm and back was slowly returning. He should have known. He couldn't get drunk; his metabolism broke down alcohol before it could work it's magic, and the same was proving true for painkillers. He knew it was only a matter of time before the pain returned in full force. If important decisions were to be made, they would have to be made soon.

Steve sighed, "Well, the real question here is what we do about it. It's obviously a real threat, as displayed by the silos and the bombs. They could bring down some real hell. We need to stop them before they can hurt anyone."

"I think we need to find Perseus," Natasha replied, "He seems to be behind whatever's going on. If we can get our hands on him, we have the key to this whole problem."

"What about Dominika?"

Natasha stood, stretching. "I'll have a little talk with her tomorrow. She still knows something, but I see no reason why we shouldn't send out a party immediately. The sooner we end this the better."

"Can't argue with that," Steve said, his words whooshing out on the back of a sigh.

"Head to bed, grandpa. You too, Bucky. Doc's orders." Natasha put a hand on Steve's shoulder as she made her way to the door, "I'm glad you're safe, Steve. It's good to have you back. You had me worried."

Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and left.

* * *

Steve lay in bed, his broken arm lying stiffly over his chest while the other was draped limply across his eyes. The medication was completely gone, but he hadn't asked Banner for more. Why bother when it would wear off just as quickly as the first dose? His back ached too, but not as bad as it had before. Whatever they had done to him was healing well enough.

He had seen that Bucky was safely to bed before retiring to his own room. His old friend hadn't said much, and that worried Steve more than anything. Before, Bucky had been a downright chatterbox, spouting snark and wiseass comments whenever he got the chance. Occasionally though, Bucky would have said something that struck Steve. Some bit of advice or knowledge that lingered in Steve's mind like a gossamer spiderweb caught in his hair.

Bucky had looked out for him when nobody else would. Bucky was there for him when his mother died, extending his friendship even when Steve's life couldn't get any lower. But more importantly, Bucky had been his friend even when Steve's life couldn't get any higher. Bucky was beside him through all the fights, all the battles that had earned Steve his place in glory and history, even though Steve's blinding light completely blocked out Bucky's dim star.

It couldn't have been easy for him.

Steve sat up and pulled on a shirt. There was no way in hell he was sleeping tonight, with his thoughts racing and his arm aching. He stood and went silently to his door, stepping out into the hall. The cheap carpeting was thin and the cold of the concrete underneath seeped through into his skin.

He went across the hall and, with two knuckles, knocked quietly on the door.

After a few moments Steve heard a muttered, "Come in."

He turned the knob and slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind him. He stood with his back against the wood, taking in the room around him.

The lights were off and the only light came from the crack under the door. The layout of the room seemed to be the twin of his own. A small bed and table, a desk, a chair. Efficient, spartan furniture that wouldn't have looked out of place in a military base. That comforted Steve.

The only difference was Bucky, who sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees. The light reflected off the chrome surface of his arm, and glinted coldly in his eyes as he looked up at Steve without so much as a word.

After a moment, Steve moved slowly across the room and sat in the chair. For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn't awkward, but contemplative.

"Buck," Steve finally said. His voice was still slightly hoarse and his words carried only a little more weight than a whisper. He wouldn't meet Bucky's eyes. "I don't know if you remember this, but back in 1944, there was an accident. . . You and I and the rest of the Commandoes, we were going to raid a Hydra train. It was a simple mission. It could have been done by anyone. It didn't _have_ to be us."

Bucky said nothing, so Steve went on.

"During the boarding, I slipped up. Something went wrong, you were attacked. I couldn't get to you in time and-" Steve's voice choked and he had to take a moment before he could continue. "And you fell."

Bucky said nothing. He did remember, some of it at least. The cold. The wind. The roar of the train all around him and suddenly, very suddenly, Steve's face getting more and more distant as the stomach-ripping sensation of falling gripped him and a scream was torn from his throat. That, he remembered. But still he did not speak.

"I wanted to say- I've been wanting to tell you for a long time, but I never thought I would get the chance." He looked up, finally looking Bucky in his bright blue eyes. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. If I had, none of this would have happened. _I'm so sorry_." He looked away, not wanting to see the reaction in Bucky's face.

He felt something cold and hard and it took him a moment to realize it was Bucky's hand. He glanced up quickly to see that there was no anger in Bucky's face. None of the expected and arguably deserved scorn.

"If it hadn't happened, I wouldn't be alive right now. I would have died an old fart and buried in the dirt like everybody else. Then who would keep your sorry ass out of trouble, huh?" A smile gently tugged a corner of Bucky's mouth, and a thousand memories flashed before his eyes. "It wasn't your fault. Besides, I'm back now, new and improved, so don't worry about it."

Steve nodded, unable to speak a word.

"I think I've missed a lot," Bucky said quietly, leaning back. "I think there's a lot you need to fill me in on. For example, what the hell is a _Hobbit_? I keep seeing signs for them all over the place, but God help me if I know what the hell it is."

Steve laughed and began to talk. He talked about all of the newfangled technology and all of the wonderful things he had discovered in his time in the 21st century. The two talked long into the night then on into the morning, Steve speaking quietly and Bucky interjecting a question here or there. When Steve finally went back to his own room, he felt empty. It was not a hollow emptiness; more like a sack free of it's overbearing load. It was a relief. He had been carrying the burden of being a stranger in his own world for too long, but finally, with Bucky beside him, there was someone to share the load.

* * *

**Thank you everyone for reading and triple thanks for reviewers! I love you all! **

**Quick update! Since NaNoWriMo is starting November 1st, I may not be able to write much for you guys for the next four weeks. I'm super sorry! I'll definitely do my best to at least post a new chapter once or twice, but we'll have to see. ^^  
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**~(For anyone unfamiliar with NaNoWriMo, it stands for National Novel Writing Month! I urge you to check it out, it's so much fun and a great way to test yourself.)~**


	17. A Kickboxing Amnesiac

Natasha was taking the first shower she'd had in much too long.

She let the warm water spill over her red hair and closed eyelids, trying to figure out exactly how long it had been. At least five days, she thought. She had simply been too busy, what with Vera Dominika's impending questioning, Bucky's noggin problems and Steve's miraculous return.

She grabbed a handful of sweet-smelling soap, lathering her hair and trying her best to wash away the dirt and grease of the last few days. Hopefully now things would calm down. With Steve safe at home and Bucky on the mend, they were no longer harried for time. Now she could finally relax. She could eat, sleep in, shower as much as she wanted and all in relative peace.

_Hopefully._

After twenty luxurious minutes under the downpour of hot water, Natasha dried and dressed quickly. It was almost six AM and she wanted to be there when Steve woke up. She still wasn't one-hundred percent sure that Steve and Bucky were alright, and she wanted them in her sight at all times until things settled down.

She wasn't sure that Steve was going to be all too happy, having her join his special one-on-one time with Bucky, but Natasha decided that he would just have to deal with it. Better a disgruntled Steve than a dead one.

Natasha turned out of her room and stopped short. The doors to both Bucky's and Steve's rooms were open, and neither of the men were in sight. Her heart plummeted. She dashed for the stairs, trotting down them in search of her rogue charges. She stuck her head in the break room but found only Clinton who was heating water on the small stove.

"Hey, Clint," Natasha said, "You seen the boys?"

Clinton smiled, pouring the steaming water into two cups and mixing the beverages with a spoon, "Yeah, they were headed for the sparring room." He handed Natasha a coffee, and she accepted it gratefully. "Don't worry about them, Natasha. Steve just wanted to get some practice in."

"With his arm?" She said in alarm, whirling away with intentions of stomping off to find the oldster.

Before she could do so, Clint grabbed her arm and halted her march, "Natasha, _don't worry_. They're better today. Steve's better. Hell, even Bucky's been talking."

She had to admit, if Bucky was talking he must be feeling much better. Still, she worried, and pulled away from Clinton with an assuring smile. She thanked him for the coffee and, clutching the warm paper cup, went to find her boys.

Steve and Bucky were in the sparring room, just as Clinton had said. The room in question was large enough to fit a basketball stadium. The floors were covered in blue mats and rubber tackling dummies lined the walls. Natasha stood just inside the door, leaning on the door frame as she watched the two men dart back and forth, trading blows. They didn't seem to be trying to murder each other, so Natasha settled back to observe.

They seemed to be kickboxing without any particular care for form or traditional rules. Steve led with his left hand, keeping his right arm tucked safely away behind his torso to keep it from getting knocked around too much. Even with his left hand, he seemed to be an equal match for Bucky. But just barely.

Bucky mirrored Steve, leading with his left but using the distance between them to deliver a strong right cross. Steve knocked the blow aside, using the momentum to spin and kick wickedly. Bucky barely managed to dodge the blow, throwing his hips back to avoid being knocked flat. In doing so, however, his head was thrust forward and in that moment Steve let fly with a left backhand that would have K.O.'ed a man twice Bucky's size. But here Natasha saw that Steve was not as fast as he had been. The time he had spent locked away with Daltex had loosened his muscles, slowed his reaction time, and his broken arm definitely wasn't doing him any favors. Bucky grabbed the back of Steve's hand, yanking him forward and punching Steve right on the point of his chin.

Steve staggered back and tripped over his own feet. Bucky leapt on him with intentions of delivering a killing blow, but Steve twisted and kicked Bucky's legs out from under him. Bucky toppled and fell, landing painfully on his back, and Steve didn't let that golden opportunity pass. He rolled over, throwing one leg up and over and straddling Bucky's chest, his good hand going to the other man's throat.

But Steve simply wasn't fast enough. Bucky grabbed both of Steve's wrists and in one quick, clean motion, rolled to the side. It was Steve's turn to hit the mat and, in a movement so quick Natasha could barely see, Bucky was sitting on Steve's chest. His metal arm held Steve's good wrist in an iron grasp and his right hand was wrapped loosely around Steve's throat.

The two men didn't move, gasping, panting, with the sheen of sweat on their skin. Bucky's ponytail had come free and his hair was draped about his face in wet strands.

"Well, it's been a long time since I could do that," Bucky crowed, leaning back on his haunches then straightening to his feet. He grasped Steve's good hand and helped the taller man up. "Feels _good_ to be able to beat your ass again."

Steve laughed, "Enjoy it while you can, Buck. Just you wait till this cast comes off. I'll show you your rightful place."

"Yeah, big talk, big man. Boast all you want, I beat you fair and square, and I'll do it again once that arm is fixed."

Natasha cleared her throat, causing both of the men to look over in surprise.

"Hey boys," she said, walking towards them, "Jesus, Steve, you must really be off your rocker if tin-man here beat you."

Steve wiped sweat off his face with the hem of his t-shirt, "Hey, don't pick on me. Do you even know what I've been through?"

"Well, you look like a shoe that's been through the washer too many times." Bucky chimed in.

Steve rolled his eyes, "Thanks, Buck."

"You really shouldn't be fighting, Steve. You need to take it easy for awhile. You too, Bucky." Natasha advised.

Steve cracked his knuckles, "I'd rather jump off a building than sit down for another few days. Bucky, again later?"

"If you're up for it, big guy," Bucky replied with a shrug.

Steve nodded, "God, I need a shower."

"I'll say," Bucky replied with a chuckle.

Steve laughed, and Natasha followed him as he headed out of the gym and into the corridor beyond.

"Steve. Steve!" She said, trying to get his attention. "You need to be careful. Steve, listen to me!'

Steve stopped in his tracks, turning suddenly to face her, "There's nothing to be careful about. Natasha, Bucky is fine. You saw him, you heard him." Steve looked down at his hands. The knuckles on his left hand were raw, scraped and bleeding in places, but Steve didn't seem to notice. "He's back to the way he was."

"Are you sure, Steve?" Natasha asked. She had seen Bucky's eyes back at the gym, and while the had been bright and clear and blue, his pupils were still dilated beyond normal. "There's still something wrong with him."

"Just leave him alone, Natasha," Steve barked. Natasha took an involuntary step backwards. "He's okay, I promise. Everything is okay now, don't you see? I have had the guilt of his death on my shoulders for longer than you've been alive. Then I find he's not dead and he's okay-we're okay. Hell, even whatever Hydra did to him has worn off."

Natasha shook her head, but remained silent. Steve stalked off, climbing the steps four at a time until he was out of sight. She still wasn't convinced, but maybe Steve was right. Maybe Bucky was alright and things would be okay. No. Daltex wouldn't just let Bucky go.

* * *

Three minutes later she was knocking on Banner's door. The doctor had seemed to enjoy his office, taking advantage of the quiet dimness of the headquarters. The door opened and Banner stuck his head out.

"Ah, Natasha. How are you this morning?"

"Fine, thanks," Natasha replied automatically. She followed Banner into his office. "And yourself?"

Banner chuckled and sat on a small stool before a large microscope. "Well enough, but I don't think you came all this way just to ask how I was doing."

Natasha smiled grimly, "No. I came to ask about Bucky. Back when you were examining him, you said that you had a theory. Steve is convinced that Bucky's one-hundred percent, but I'm still not sure."

Banner nodded and leaned forward to look through the microscope lenses. "He's still showing signs of mydriasis, but his mental functions seemed to have returned to normal."

"So what do you think it is? Do you still think it's an after effect of phenylephrine?"

Bruce leaned back, "No, no. Here, come take a look at this."

Natasha stopped forward and peered into the microscope lenses. "This is blood?" She asked.

"Yes, Bucky was kind enough to donate it this morning. Look."

Natasha recognized the red and white blood cells and platelets, and everything seemed pretty much normal.

"I don't see-"

"Look."

She peered closer, studying the mass of cells. Wait. What was that? She had seen something. Something that did not belong. There it was again. Little white dots intermingled with the cells, darting in and out and around as if in some strange dance.

"What the hell are those?" Natasha whispered. "Is it an infection?"

"No. You told me that Bucky was used as a test subject before the incident with the train. Well, I think those are the result of the tests. Similar cells can be found in Steve's blood."

Natasha leaned back, "Do you think it's the serum?"

Banner nodded, "Yep. I think whatever they gave Steve to make him. . .the way he is, was also given to Bucky. An experimental version, at least. But that's not the point. Watch this."

Banner produced a little clear plate. He smeared the glass with a drop of Bucky's blood. From a vial, he produced a single drop of clear liquid that, when dropped onto the blood, hissed and smoked viciously.

Natasha recoiled, "What the hell is that?"

"What you just saw was a chemical reaction. When exposed to zodiazephine, the chemical produces the effect you just saw."

"Forgive my plebeian ignorance, but what is zodiazephine? I've never heard of it before."

Banner placed the plate on the counter and spun on his stool to face Natasha, "It's a sub-solution very similar to benzodiazephine, which is a sedative used for surgery. It also causes forgetfulness, which is a plus because nobody wants to remember getting sliced open. Zodiazephine is basically a benzodiazephine concentrate. It's very strange, because there are very large traces of it in Bucky's blood."

"Wait, you're telling me that Bucky has somehow been pumped full of sedatives? Doc, I just saw him beat Steve in a fist-fight, there's no way he's been sedated."

"No, Natasha. Zodiazephine enhances the forgetfulness aspect of benzodiazephine."

"So. . . It's a-"

"Mind-wipe drug, basically." Banner said with a nod.

Natasha sat down heavily on the medical examination table, "Okay," she said slowly, processing Banner's words, "Well, that's not strange. Hydra was wiping his mind like a dry-erase board last summer."

Banner shook his head, "No. See, that's where it gets interesting. When they were wiping his mind, it was a purely physical process. They didn't use any drugs."

Natasha straightened, "Wait, so that means-"

"Hydra was wiping his mind again, but this time with zodiazephine."

Natasha sighed, trying to understand what this meant. "Bucky must have seen or heard something then while he was with Daltex, then."

"Yes," Banner agreed, "But what? Whatever it was it must have been quite substantial to require that much zodiazephine."

"Is there any way for him to remember?"

"Ah, and here arises another interesting point. There is no way that Bucky is still being drugged, so that means that the zodiazephine is a permanent substance. It will linger in his blood, untouched by his metabolism until it receives a soluble agent."

"So, we need a cure?" Natasha asked. "Where can we find that?"

With a heavy breath, Banner rubbed his face with one hand, "Give me a few days and I might be able to fix something up. I'll need another blood donation from Bucky, but I think I can do it. Let's just hope whatever it is that Bucky forgot isn't too traumatic."

* * *

**Okay, guys! Here's another chapter! This was written in a bit if a hurry, so I apologize if there are grammatical errors!  
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**Thank you for reading and, seriously, every single review means boat-loads to me. Just the fact that you guys are reading this makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, so thank you so much! ^u^**


	18. (Almost) Total Recall

Natasha slammed the door to Vera Dominika's cell with more force than absolutely necessary. She had been trying to subtly needle information out of the Russian woman for four days, but still Dominika would say nothing.

She rested against the door frame and leaned her head back. She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath, trying to drown out her growing frustration. Banner's antidote was nearly complete and they were going to launch a raid on Daltex Headquarters as soon as Steve's arm was completely healed. He was healing at his usual lightning pace and the bone was nearly whole again. In place of the stiff cast, he wore a soft bandage at Banner's insistence. Two or three days more and Steve would be one hundred percent once again.

But still, they needed the information that Dominika had. Perhaps it was time to resort to more extreme measures. Steve would not approve but then again, she did not really have to tell Steve.

She jumped as her phone beeped. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was Banner summoning her to his office.

It was time.

* * *

Five minutes later, Natasha was pushing through into Bruce's little office. Banner stood at the counter, pulling on blue rubber gloves as Bucky sat shiftily on the medical examination table. He wore a black hoodie, but the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. Steve leaned against the back wall. His arms were crossed over his chest and his body language betrayed the nerves he obviously felt. Clinton waved to her from across the room and she nodded back in greeting.

"It's finished, Banner?" Natasha asked, going to his side.

"I wouldn't have called you here if it wasn't," Banner replied dryly. "It wasn't easy, but yes. It's finished."

Natasha glanced back at Bucky, whose face displayed almost no emotion at all. She lowered her voice, "You sure it'll work?"

Bruce cast her a sideways glance, "If it doesn't kill him." He pulled the plastic cap off of a syringe. He plunged it into a tiny bottle, drawing the clear liquid with a practiced hand. He flicked the tip to clear any bubbles from the needle.

"I can just feel my confidence levels rising." Bucky said sarcastically. "Have you guys ever even heard of bedside manner?"

Natasha swore, but could not keep from chuckling gently. She kept forgetting that Bucky had superpowers as well, even if he did not always show it.

"This will only tickle a little," Banner said with his usual grim humor as he went to Bucky's side.

"Wait, wait," Steve stepped forward, lifting a hand to stop Banner, "You told me this was safe. You told me that this was a safe process!"

Bucky impatiently waved Steve's hand away, "Leave it. Go ahead, Doc. Shoot me up."

Steve stepped back reluctantly. Banner swabbed the crook of Bucky's arm with an alcohol pad and slid the needle beneath Bucky's skin. Bucky did not so much as flinch. Banner stepped back and they all watched Bucky's face, waiting for him to show any signs of the antidotes effects.

Bucky sat with his lands dangling between his knees and looked around the room, impatiently waiting to feel - or remember - anything. Suddenly Natasha saw his eyes glaze over and he closed them tight. He would have fallen off the table if Steve had not jumped forward to catch Bucky's shoulders.

"Buck, are you alright? Banner, what's happening?" Steve cried.

Bucky blinked rapidly and straightened, shrugging away Steve's hands. His eyes flicked open, and Natasha gasped. At first she thought she had imagined it, but no. Bucky's pinprick pupils were slowly, ever so slowly growing back to normal size. Banner quickly took a penlight and flashed it over Bucky's eyes. Sure enough his pupils reacted to the light, swelling and shrinking in the sudden, flashing light. The mydriasis was gone.

Finally, Natasha could not take it anymore. "Do you remember anything?" She said.

Bucky stared at the ground, narrowing his eyes. Steve kept one steadying hand on his shoulder. He was worried that what Bucky would remember would change him forever and take him once more out of Steve's reach. But he understood that this was something Bucky needed to do, and he did not interfere.

"I-" Bucky began. His shoulders started to shake and his voice was tremulous, "Yeah. I do. I it's coming back."

Natasha shook her head, "What?"

"Go easy, Natasha," Steve hissed.

Bucky closed his eyes again and covered them with his good hand. "I remember the experiments. Blood and bone marrow, like you said before. Tissue samples, DNA samples, hell, they even took some of my hair." Bucky reached back to the base of his neck and pushed aside his mess of hair, revealing one lock that was significantly shorter than the rest. "They didn't talk to me much, the doctors. But there was this one guy. He was fat and he always wore this stupid purple tie. God, I can't remember. Are you sure this crap is working?"

"Perseus?" Steve proffered.

"Yeah, that was his name. We talked a lot. Well, he talked to me. I didn't talk back. He was interested in my arm," Bucky raised his left cybernetic hand, "But that didn't seem to be his main focus. Anyway, he talked and talked but his words had no substance."

"Is that all?" Natasha pressed.

Bucky's hair sprayed out around him as he shook his head, "No. No. Oh, my God," He said suddenly. He lifted his face from his hands, his eyes wide and wild. He stood from the table, gripping the metal for support.

Banner winced, "Bucky, you really should be sitting down."

"Barnes!" Natasha cried, "What's wrong?"

"I remember!" Bucky continued, but his voice was hoarse. "I talked back to him. Talked sweet. I promised to cooperate if he told me what Daltex was doing; what Hydra was doing."

Natasha caught her breath. Her heart was beating nervously in her throat as she listened to Bucky's frantic words.

Bucky turned to Steve, "He didn't tell me. He showed me. He took me to this room, this white room with bright lights. It smelled like alcohol and there was a loud rumbling sound, like a motorbike engine. Steve, oh, my God."

"Bucky, calm down," Steve said softly. "Just tell me what you saw, okay?"

Bucky inhaled and exhaled slowly, then nodded. "There was this huge tank. It was taller than I am and it was hooked up to some kind of machine. That's what was making all the noise." He took a deep, steadying breath and looked Steve in the eyes. "Inside the tank, floating in the water, there was a _woman_. She was growing in the tank like some pickled animal. She was sleeping, with a mask over her mouth and nose. I wasn't sure what to say, so I told him that she was beautiful. He just laughed and laughed, then he said-" Bucky closed his eyes again, "He said that she was my successor. That she was _of_ me."

Suddenly Natasha's memory jolted, sending an electric buzz down her spine. When she had first spoken to Dominika, Bucky had burst in on them. He'd had a fit right there in the room, clutching his head.

"_They're making another one_," Natasha repeated Bucky's words quietly.

Everyone except Bucky turned and stared at Natasha.

"What do you mean?" Clinton asked, his horror growing, "What the hell do you mean '_they're making another one_'."

Natasha's voice came out in a voice barely above a whisper. "Blood and tissue samples, the woman in the tank. You heard him yourself, Clint. They're making another one. They're making another _super soldier_."

There was dead silence in the room for several moments as everyone struggled to comprehend Natasha's words.

"Are you sure?" Steve finally asked.

Bucky still sat with his eyes firmly closed. His head was resting in his hands and his breathing was slow and steady but whether his calm exterior was artificial or not, Natasha could not say. "The redhead's right," he said without moving, "She was different. That dame was. . . something else."

Natasha sat down heavily on Banner's swivel chair and sighed. It was always one thing after another. And there she was, thinking that everything was going to be okay. "God knows what Hydra would do with a super soldier," She whispered.

"I think I know what Hydra would do with a super soldier," Steve said quietly.

Bucky sighed and rubbed his face as if trying to wipe away bad memories. His shoulders trembled slightly, but when he spoke his voice was steady enough, though Natasha detected something odd in his voice. "Ah, good old Johann McSunburned Schmidt. By God, I wish I'd gotten to bump that old deadhoof off instead of you, Steve."

That was it. There was the slightest trace of the traditional old 1940's lilt in his voice. Banner's antidote really had worked, then, if Bucky's old accent was coming back to him.

"Buck, you okay?" Steve asked concernedly.

"I feel _drunk_, Steve." Bucky tried to stand once again and wobbled on his feet. He still trembled and his eyes looked hollow. Natasha felt rather than deduced that Bucky remembered more than he was willing to let on.

"Yeah, I should have told you about that." Banner said with a straight face. "The solution is mixed in a four-hundred proof alcohol solution."

Steve grimaced. Bucky had always had a better stomach for alcohol than he had, but a four-hundred-percent solution would be even enough to put Bucky out for the count. "You should get to bed, Bucky."

Bucky nearly toppled sideways, but Steve caught hold of his arm and settled him carefully on the metal bed. Bucky lay back and closed his eyes, "Jeez, Banner. I haven't been able to get drunk in seventy years. I don't know if I should cuss you out or. . . thank you."

Then Bucky's eyelids drifted shut, and just like that Bucky was asleep.

"Banner, what the hell-" Steve started, but was hushed by one raised finger from the doctor.

The doctor checked Bucky's pulse, then motioned for the others to follow him outside.

"Banner, what the hell did you do? Even I know that a four-hundred proof alcohol solution wasn't even close to necessary." Steve said as Banner closed the door to his office behind him.

"Because," Banner said patiently, "the counter drug needs something other than water to aid in the metabolism of the zodiazephine. Plus, it will take awhile to take full effect. In that time, was he awake, Bucky would be experiencing some very nasty headaches and flashbacks. He has to mentally relive every moment of his life until now to re-form the neurological pathways." Banner shrugged, "I just thought that it would probably be better that he was unconscious for all of that."

Steve hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks."

"Don't be thanking me just yet," Banner chuckled, "he's going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"Not to mention this new information," Clinton added. "Who is that girl? Are they really making another super soldier?"

Natasha shrugged, "We have to assume that they are."

Clinton nodded, shifting impatiently, "What's the plan, Natasha?"

"We have to take down Salt Lake Daltex headquarters," she said confidently. "We need to take down Hydra before they complete the girl."

* * *

**~Goodness, it's been awhile! I'm sorry that I haven't updated in so long! I feel like I've let you guys down. I'm sorry. I should be updating somewhat regularly from here on out, so thank you guys so much for sticking with me! Your kind reviews and support honestly mean the world to me. **

**~If you have any suggestions for the story, feel free to let me know!~**


	19. Remember the Smithsonian?

"Feel better?" Bucky asked. He was pulling his long brown hair back into it's usual lazy tail. Almost immediately, a few stray locks pulled free of the elastic and framed his face, but either he failed to notice or he simply didn't care.

Steve flexed his right arm. The muscles felt a little weak without the support of a stiff bandage or splint, but as he rotated his shoulder he felt no pain. "Yeah, no thanks to you."

Bucky gave a hearty chuckle, "I had to get back at you somehow. You can't just going around spiking people's antidotal injections with alcohol."

"For the last time, Buck," Steve said, turning, "It's not my fault you're a lightweight."

"Lightweight!" Bucky scoffed, "I can still out-drink you, don't try to lie. You were always bad at that."

Steve turned and for a second their eyes met. Then the moment was broken. Steve fastened the last buckle on his suit and threw up his hands, "Fine. Fine! You bring the booze and we'll have a contest."

There was the soft rustle of leather as Bucky pulled on his coat. He nodded, "Is vodka okay?"

Steve wrinkled his nose. It was apparent that Bucky hadn't lost his taste for the russian booze, but Steve had never had a taste for it to begin with. He waved his hand anyway, "Yeah, whatever you like. You'll need an advantage, anyway."

Bucky pretended to bristle at Steve's words, and he may have replied if Natasha had not poked her red head through the door.

"If you ladies are done powdering your noses, the carriage is about to leave for the ball."

She looked at her boys; Steve in his dark blue and silver uniform with the shield strapped across his back, Bucky in his pitch black leather coat and heavy canvas clothes. They looked ready.

"This isn't something to joke about, Natasha," Steve said solemnly.

"Oh, come on," Bucky laughed, "It's a raid. It's _Hydra_. What more could you ask for?"

The room was silent for a moment, then Steve said, "What do we do about the girl?"

His unasked question was clear. '_Do we kill her?_'

Natasha shook her head and turned away from the door, "We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Rogers. Let's focus on getting to the bridge first."

* * *

The small company of raiders included Steve, Natasha, Bucky and Hawkeye. At first Natasha had been adamant that Bucky stay, saying that a smaller party would be better suited for stealth than a larger one. Her words didn't fool Steve. Natasha didn't want Bucky along because, while all his memories were returning, it was still unclear if Bucky was okay. Steve tried to see it in Bucky's eyes, but Bucky would often refuse to meet his gaze. Deep down, Steve realized that he agreed with Natasha. He didn't want Bucky along either. He could get hurt, or worse.

But still, Bucky was stubborn and cursed Natasha out until she threw up her hands in disgust and shouted 'fine, fine!'.

The van took them to the airport, and from there they quickly boarded the jet. Natasha and Clinton sat together near the back, their heads close and their lips moving in the rhythms of quiet conversation. Bucky sat near a window, and Steve settled himself down next to him.

"This is quite the machine," Bucky said as the jet silently took off and soared into the clouds.

Steve took a moment to consider the aircrafts he had flown in as a younger man, then nodded. "I feel a lot safer in this than those rickety old cans we called planes before."

Before. Before _what_? Before their shared comas? Before the quiet waste of seventy years?

Bucky's blue eyes drifted over the clouds. He didn't like flying. The serum had worked too well, and the gently wafting clouds reminded him too much of falling; falling through sleet and wind to land in a pile of snow that looked so very much like the clouds of vapor that passed before his gaze. Still, he showed none of this on his face and he nodded his agreement.

"Do you remember the Smithsonian, Buck?" Steve asked, "The museum they were talking about building back when we were kids?"

Bucky nodded, "Yeah, why?"

Steve was silent for a moment before he went on, "There's an exhibit about us there."

"I know." Bucky glanced over at Steve. The look lasted only a moment, then Bucky's gaze returned to the window. But what Bucky saw wasn't the clouds and the distant ground; he saw the room where he had been painted as a hero. A dead hero. The great mural of Steve and himself and the rest of the Commandos, and the row of uniforms. Even his old clothes had been there, only a fragment of their former glory.

"You know?" Steve said in surprise.

"I went after. . ."

Steve bobbed his head slowly, but Bucky didn't meet his eyes.

"It seems impossible," Bucky continued. Then he turned and Steve saw in his eyes a boyish delight, "There's a museum exhibit about us. _Us_! Can you believe it?"

Steve's somber, reminiscent mood suddenly changed at the look on Bucky's face and he couldn't help but grin, "I know. It's crazy. I never would have thought that anything, _anything_ like this could have happened. And it happened to _us_, out of all people."

Bucky knew that Steve spoke of more than just the museum. Bucky crossed his legs at the ankle and shook his head, a chuckle still on his lips. "I don't know, Steve. I'm still not sure if we're lucky bastards or not."

"Lucky or not, we're still bastards."

Bucky laughed and slapped his knee, just like he used to all those years ago. Steve had forgotten that he used to do that; and the way he parted his hair on the side, rather than down the middle. Steve settled back in his seat with a smile plastered on his face. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence before Steve said, "How's your head?"

Bucky raised a hand and touched his brow as if he felt pain there, but he shrugged and replied, "Well enough."

"Well enough?" Steve scoffed, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you want? A medical diagnosis? I'm fine, Steve."

Steve shrugged, "Banner wanted me to ask you. No pain? You're not dizzy or anything?"

Bucky shook his head, resigning himself to Steve's concern, "No. Really, Steve. I'm fine. I just get these flashes. Memories coming back, you know?"

"Anything in particular?"

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment. His pupils had long since returned to normal size, and some of the dark shadowing around his eyelids had faded. Steve guessed that his alcohol-induced sleep had been the best rest he'd had in a long time. "Remember that one time Dugan drank himself silly and then-"

"Climbed the radio tower and sang Good Old Sally all night? Over and over?"

Bucky laughed, "I still can't believe that old sot didn't fall off and kill himself!"

* * *

Natasha glanced up from her quiet conversation and saw Steve and Bucky, laughing loudly and clapping their hands in amusement. They did not try to speak quietly, so Natasha had no difficulty listening in.

They were talking about the past.

Natasha felt her heart twitch, but with what, she didn't know. Sadness? No, not quite. Jealousy? Natasha refused to believe that she could be jealous. She should be happy for Steve. At last, he had found someone with whom he could relate. At last, he had found someone to talk to, to share with, to open up to.

_And it wasn't her._

* * *

**_~Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing! _**

**_I'm sorry this is such a short chapter. I've been crazy busy over the holidays! Speaking of holidays, Happy New Years, my dear reader! May 2015 be filled with smiles and joy and many, many more chapters of Lay Me in the Cold Earth! ^u^  
_**


	20. Return to Salt Lake

Daltex Salt Lake City Headquarters looked much different to Steve than the first time he had lain unfortunate eyes upon the great glass structure. The four of them sat in a black sedan parked right in front of the building. The chance of them being discovered this early in their raid was low, but they took precautions anyway. The car was of a common variety, the windows slightly tinted to keep away any casual glance.

"You okay, Steve?" Natasha asked from the front seat.

"Yeah," Steve replied, though he wasn't really listening. The window had been replaced; the one that had shattered as he leapt through it. And the decorative fountain had been removed, leaving a dry concrete basin that had been recently plastered back together. Once, this building had been his prison. Now it, and all those inside, were his prey.

Natasha seemed satisfied with his answer and continued speaking, "Alright. We have two objectives that we absolutely must complete. We have to find Perseus, and we have to find the girl. Capture them any way you can, though I suspect that they won't put up too much of a fight. Their cronies, however, might be a different matter."

"Then what?" Clint said, "Grab them and race for the car?"

Natasha tapped her ear, where a tiny earbud lay. "Say the word. Once we've got them both, then yes. We'll race for the car. Everybody set?"

By way of answering, Bucky kicked his door open and stood. Steve followed suit, and straightened in the hot Salt Lake air. "Bucky and I will go in the front. Natasha, you and Clint in the back. We'll meet in the middle, then take the stairs up and clear out each floor as we go," Steve said, unconsciously stepped back into the role of captain.

Natasha nodded, "Alright. Let's go."

* * *

Steve didn't even try to conceal himself as he strode boldly through the front doors with Bucky at his side. The receptionist looked up at him in surprise, then terror as she realized who Steve was. A man in a suit dropped his briefcase and papers flew through the air. Anger surged through Steve like lava through his veins. He had a bone to pick. Daltex had hurt him and worse, they had hurt his friend. Bucky slammed a fresh magazine into his sub-machine gun and Steve knew that Bucky felt the same. Together, they walked forward into Hydra headquarters.

* * *

Stealthy as black cats on a moonless night, Natasha and Clinton stole around the building to the back. Clinton tried the handle of a door, rattling the thing on it's hinges when it refused to budge.

"Locked," he said. "Well, I guess it couldn't have been that easy."

"Never fear, Clint my dear," Natasha said, pulling a plastic card from her pocket and slipping it through the plastic reader built into the door's handle. The little light pinged green, and she pulled the door open.

"Where the did you get that?" Clinton asked in disbelief.

"Vera Dominika had it in her pocket when we found her."

Clinton scoffed and followed Natasha through the door. They found themselves in a service corridor with four or five doors leading off. Clint and Natasha shared glances, then split up, checking each room for personnel. The first door she tried was an empty copying room. The second, however, seemed to be a break room. In a moment, the occupants were unconscious with their hands tied firmly behind their backs. When she returned to the corridor, she heard the sounds of a similar encounter through Clint's door. She strode ahead to the last door, and in a moment Clint was by her side.

She poked her head cautiously through, and gasped. The door opened up behind the reception desk of what must have been the front room. Papers and bodies were strewn across the floor. Behind the desk, six or seven people lay bound hand and foot. They lay deathly still, staring at Natasha as if she would strike them dead at any second.

Across the floor, Bucky and Steve were locked in combat with five armed and armored figures. They wore black bullet proof vests and riot gear, pistols in one hand and tazers in the other. Steve dropped one of the men with a kick, but stumbled when he tried to regain his balance. One of the soldiers saw this opportunity and leaped forward to seize it. Reacting quickly, Bucky caught a fistful of Steve's collar in one hand and the soldier's oncoming punch in the other. In one smooth movement, Bucky yanked Steve to his feet and drove the soldier's face into his knee. The soldier dropped like a stone to the floor.

Natasha launched herself through the door and vaulted the desk, using her momentum to launch herself up onto the shoulders of the third man. She drove her wrists into the soldier's neck, and a pulse of electricity shot through the man, dropping him where he stood. She felt more than saw something fly less than a foot from her face, and whirled to see an arrow protruding from the chest of a man who had been about to bash her brains in with a heavy blackjack.

She caught Clinton's eye and nodded her thanks.

In a moment, the remaining two soldiers were down, one receiving a particularly nasty metal elbow to the face while the other fared none-too better.

Natasha straightened and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. Clinton notched another arrow to his bow, not completely sure they were safe.

"What the hell are those things?" Bucky cried, a mix of awe and consternation clear on his face.

Natasha held up her wrists, showing him the twin devices, "Black Widow Bites," she said with a wink.

As Clint pulled the arrow from the dead man on the floor, Bucky leaned close to Steve and whispered, "That is quite the dame."

Steve strangled a chuckle, "Don't let her hear you say that. She'll walk all over you, Buck."

"Say what?" Natasha said, "No, I don't tell me. I don't want to know. There will be more guards on the way, we need to get going. Steve, where are the stairs?"

"I don't know. When I left, I went by a more . . . _direct_ rout."

Bucky lifted a hand and pointed towards a narrow door on the back wall, "It's there."

"You remember?" Steve said in disbelief.

Bucky sighed, as if he were only just tolerating the stupidity of his companions, "No. _I saw the sign_, Steve."

"Oh," Steve said.

Natasha smiled to herself, but covered it by running for the stairs.

* * *

They encountered another five soldiers coming down the stairs to meet them, but they were dispatched without any major difficulties.

When the last man fell, his helmet clattering painfully over the stairs, Steve said, "It's weird."

"What is?" asked Clint.

Bucky took a few steps up the stairs and paused, listening, "It is."

"What is?" Clint asked yet again.

"Before, there were. . ." Bucky started.

"A lot more than ten soldiers," Steve finished.

Bucky nodded affirmation, "Something's up."

Natasha gazed up the stairs, "Where is Perseus' office?"

"Twenty-fourth," Steve and Bucky said in unison.

"The girl would most likely be on the twenty-third floor," Bucky said, catching on.

Steve put up a hand, "Why? Aren't we clearing the floors?"

"No," Natasha shook her head. "If something's up, we don't have time. We need to get them and get out." She waited a moment to see if anyone would object. When no one did, she continued, "Steve, I need you with me. We'll get the girl. Clint, and you and Bucky get Perseus."

"Fine," Clinton said, and they all began their mad dash up the stairs.

By the time they reached the twenty-third floor, only Steve and Bucky were breathing normally. Natasha and Clint both wheezed slightly, but neither complained. Without a word, Natasha followed Steve as he burst through the door and into the corridor beyond. The sounds of the other two racing up the staircase was loud and clattering in her ears.

Steve's heart was in his mouth. This place, these halls, even the smell that assailed him brought back painful, vivid memories. The chair. The needles. The surgery. The fat man with the stupid purple tie. Suddenly, he envied Bucky. He wanted to be the one to take down Perseus, but he had more important things to take care of.

"Where? Steve, where would she be?" Natasha cried. The lack of security personnel or even workers was disturbing. Sure, there had been people on the first floor, but that almost seemed like a front; the image of a busy office building to fool those around it. Steve's growing worry drove him even faster.

In answer, Steve ran into the hospital wing, but stopped in his tracks as soon as he passed through the doors. There was the reception room. The desk in the corner, with the chairs lining the walls. He resumed his jog, and entered the corridor. Together, they carefully checked each hospital room. Natasha noticed that Steve skipped one near the door, and told him so.

"There's nothing there," Steve said with grim surety.

"How do you know?"

"Because it was my room. She's not there, let's go."

Steve went on searching, but Natasha cracked the door open and looked inside. It was a small room, with a white tiled floor and sterile white walls. A bed lay in the middle, clean and free of any blankets or pillows. Her stomach plummeted as she saw the heavy leather straps that were fastened to each corner of the bed.

"Natasha," Steve said at her shoulder.

She jumped guiltily and spun to face Steve.

He looked past her into the room for a long minute with eyes that spoke of pain almost forgotten. Then he blinked and the pain was gone. Or at least forgotten for the moment. "Let's go," he said again.

They searched every room, but panic began to grow in Natasha's stomach as they came closer and closer to the end of the hall. Finally, they opened the last door and they saw exactly what they had seen for the past fifty doors. A clean bed. A closet, and table. But no girl. The room was empty.

"Steve, she's not here!"

Steve swore and slammed the door with more force than was completely necessary, "I don't know where she-"

Steve was interrupted by a flare of static rushing through his earbud. From the way Natasha winced and put a hand to her ear, he knew that she had heard the same thing. In a moment, the static gave way to Clinton's voice.

"Steve! Natasha, he's not here!"

"What?" Natasha cried, "what do you mean?"

"Perseus isn't in his office. There's some guy, a kid really. Bucky! Bucky let go of him! Stop it!"

"Clint! What's going on? Talk, dammit!" Natasha exclaimed.

"_Where is he? Tell me, where the hell is Perseus?_" Bucky shouted so loudly that it was audible through Clinton's microphone.

"Steve, you need to get down here now. Bucky's off his rocker."

Natasha nearly stumbled as Steve took off running full speed down the corridor.

* * *

Steve knew the way. He followed his own footsteps, the trail he had taken what seemed like years ago but was truly no more than seven days. He ran up a flight of stairs and bolted through the corridor, slamming through Perseus' door just in time to see Bucky push Clint aside. In his metal hand, he held the collar of a man. No, not a man. He was a boy. He couldn't have been more than twenty, but his face was bloodied and bruised, his eyelids half closed.

Steve launched himself across the room and bowled Bucky over. "Clint!" he cried, "Get the kid out of here!"

Clint hastened to obey, grabbing the kid's shoulders and hauling him bodily out the door.

"Bucky! Buck! Get a hold of yourself!"

Bucky stopped squirming in Steve's grip and looked up at him. Steve recognized the look. It was the look that he often gave Steve long ago. The look Steve gave him whenever Steve stopped him from beating the living crap out of someone who had bullied his smaller friend.

"Let me at him, Steve. Let me up. I'm going to-"

"That wasn't Perseus, Buck! Jeez, you were bashing in the face of some _kid_!"

"I know!" Bucky cried, "But Perseus isn't here. I was going to make the kid tell me."

"The girl's not here, either," Steve said quietly.

Natasha burst through the door, and both men turned to look at her.

She paused for a moment, taking in the situation before saying, "There's no one here. The kid, he's just some paper pusher for Daltex."

Steve sat back on his haunches and Bucky scrambled to his feet, "It's a front," Bucky said. "They've moved."

Steve swore and stood, striding quickly towards the door. Clinton stood protectively in front of the boy, but Bucky pushed him roughly aside. The boy looked up at him in fear as Bucky grabbed his collar and hauled him bodily to his feet. Steve started forward to stop him, but Natasha gently held him back.

"What do you know about Hydra?" Bucky shouted, his anger rising.

Blood still flowed from the boy's nose and he trembled in Bucky's hands, "I don't know," he said, "They moved out a few days ago! I just make the coffee!"

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know!" He repeated, "I don't know, they don't tell me anything. Even my boss is gone! I don't even know if I'm getting paid this month!"

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment and let his pent up breath out slowly. He let go of the boy's collar. "The locations of any other Daltex factories, can you tell me that?"

The boy looked down at his shoes, "My boss. . . he wouldn't-"

Bucky made forward as if he were about to strangle the boy, who pulled back in terror, "Okay! Okay!" he cried, "I'll get you the list!"

* * *

Fourteen hours later, they were back in Chicago with nothing to show for their efforts. It had all been a wasted attempt. They had accomplished nothing, except to waste time they didn't have.

Natasha had tried to examine the list for an hour before seeking out her rooms and collapsing exhaustedly into bed. After checking with Maria and making sure things were still secure, Clint had done likewise, unable to stay awake for moment longer.

Steve had tried to find sleep, but it evaded him as it had been doing more and more over the past few days. Even thought he hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours, his exhausted mind remained restless. He sat in the break room. The lights were painfully bright, but the coffee in front of him was slowly easing the headache that was pounding behind his eyes.

He had been ready to kill Perseus. He hadn't realized it before, but as they were climbing those stairs, he had known. He would kill his old captor. He would bash his brains in or shoot him or throw him out the same window that Steve himself had leaped from not a week before, to deliver as much at least as much pain to Perseus as he had caused to Bucky and Steve himself. But now that Perseus had escaped, now that Steve's feelings could not be vented or relieved, he felt disgusted with himself.

He never liked taking lives. Sure, it was often necessary and couldn't be avoided, but the plan had been to capture Perseus alive. Something inside Steve moved and writhed with anger, a pent-up unholy rage that festered like a maggot-ridden wound in his heart, getting only more and more infected with time.

Steve had always been a gentle man. Even the Army wouldn't accept him back in the day. His frailness was not the only flaw they found in him, if kindness can be considered a flaw. He never had the stomach for needless violence, for innocent deaths. But now. . . Now Steve felt an urge that he wasn't familiar with.

And it frightened him.

Suddenly, there was a sound like a gunshot and, startled, Steve looked up. Bucky stood over him, having entered the kitchen completely unnoticed by Steve. Bucky slammed down his other hand, and two shot glasses joined the tall bottle of clear vodka on the rickety table.

"You look like you need a drink," Bucky said. "I know _I_ do."

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! **

**~This marks our _twentieth chapter!_ Hurray! I never thought the story would make it this far, thank you guys for sticking with me!  
**

**To _8belles_: Oh, I didn't know that! Thank you, I really appreciate it! I'll definitely go back and fix what I can! ^^**


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